The gravel crunched beneath my padded feet as I bounded down the railroad tracks. In my rush to escape the yard, I hadn’t taken the time to transform back to my human self. I had, instead, shoved the wolf into the passenger's seat, and made my escape. For now, she was begrudgingly along for the ride.
Monty hung around my neck like a bizarre—and uncomfortably tight—scarf, her head lifted, her tongue flickering as she tasted the air.
My wet fur was plastered and matted against a dress skirt that clung and tugged with every awkward stride. Between my clothes lack of give—tailored to fit a more human form—my sodden pelt, and the general awkwardness of running on digitigrade legs for the first time, I felt like a clumsy tangle of limbs, bounding tie to tie with the grace of a half-drowned gazelle.
The tracks, flanked by thick woods on either side, offered cover from passing cars and pedestrians, ensuring I had a safe and secure route home. I could secret Monty and myself back to Sandy’s with drawing more attention. Not that it could save me from the attention I’d already garnered for myself. But, barring home videos, there was a slim chance that someone in a passing train would come by and see me—a streaking werewolf leading a pack of dogs.
My purse jostled against one shoulder, while my rolled-up suit jacket sat tucked under my other arm. Coy and Emma raced behind me, Emma’s tongue lolling as she bounded behind me, and Coy with his jaws clamped around one of my ballet flats that had fallen off after my feet stopped being feet.
God knew that my other flat was still floating back in the pool of the yard I’d just come from. I had Cinderella’d myself and, in doing so, ensured that there was definitive proof tying me back to the yard where the kids had recorded me.
Behind Coy and Emma, bringing up the rear, was the Jack Russell terrier—their tiny legs pumping with a maniacal determination I couldn’t fathom.
To be clear, I wasn’t running from the kids with the cameras. I was running from the damn dog. The little Jack Russell terrorist was barreling after us, seemingly intent on finishing its fight with Monty. Getting the snake home, and back into her sun basket, was my top priority, but the terrier was making it a nightmare. I had to constantly command Monty to calm down so that she wouldn’t go into a frenzy again.
At first I assumed that the terrier’s beef was just with Monty, but, despite having saved their life, I too had somehow incurred their wrath. Back in the yard with the pool, the terrier had, at first, stood their ground, yipping and snarling at Monty and me. But, just as I turned my back to it, intending to leap the fence, sharp teeth sank into my tail, and I didn’t so much clear the fence as tumble over it, diving headfirst into the foliage on the other side.
I could only imagine that the terrier, with its nipped tail, envied Monty and me for our long and intact tails, and sought to make us suffer through them.
Spitting out twigs and dirt from my teeth, I staggered to my feet, shaking myself off like a wet dog. Monty damn-near strangled me as a result, reacting unfavorably to the sudden and jarring jostling she’d just been subjected to.
The plan from there had been to trot home at a reasonable pace, but that soon went out the window. The terrier, having apparently dug many a hole under its fence, easily escaped containment, and pursued us.
“What’s with this dog?” I growled through gritted teeth, sparing a glance behind me.
“Unparalleled tenacity,” Nevermore said, gliding effortlessly beside me. His wings barely stirred the humid air, his pace infuriatingly unhurried. “It’s a characteristic of their breed.”
“For fuck's sake. Heel!” I hissed at Monty, projecting the command into her mind, as I felt her beginning to grow herself again. My shoulder throbbed from where she’d bitten me in her enlarged state, and my clumsy feet stumble over a pair of the uneven railroad ties. I was juggling too many things in the circus my life had become.
“Not to change the subject,” he began, “but are you just going to leave those kids with the recordings?”
I lost my balance as my foot sank into the gravel between the ties—I’d over estimated my leap. Good thing I didn’t have ankles to twist.
“What am I supposed to do?” I shot back at him. “Break into their house and steal their phones? I’d only be digging myself into a deeper hole.”
“Well,” he said lightly, “it couldn’t be more risky than leaving them with irrefutable evidence of your lycanthropy. I thought the plan was to avoid attention.”
“No one’s going to believe it’s real,” I said, my tone clipped. “People will think it’s a deepfake or a costume. Have you seen what people can do with video editing these days?”
“Ah, yes,” he mused. “Let the internet decide you’re merely a lunatic in an elaborate getup. An interesting gamble, though it might complicate things.”
My ears twitched toward him. “How, exactly?”
He hesitated for only a moment. “Oh, I don’t know—perhaps the trifling matter of exposing yourself to minors.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, spinning around so quickly that gravel scattered beneath my claws. “Oh, shit!”
Coy and Emma paused ahead of me, tails wagging in nervous anticipation. Behind me, the terrier stopped too, barking furiously, watching for an opening.
How could I have missed this? Even if no one believed the video was real, it didn’t matter. I hadn’t just trespassed—I’d left behind footage that skirted dangerously close to NC-17 territory.
Trespassing and Indecent exposure were one thing. Barely a slap on the wrist if you could pay the fine.
But this? This could qualify me for Section 16-15-140—Committing Lewd Acts Upon a Minor. A single violation could earn me 15 years in prison.
Three kids. Three violations.
This entire time I thought lycanthropy would ruin my life, when I was more than capable of doing it myself the entire time. With my own god damn assets.
“Oh, God,” I whispered, panic clawing at my throat “We have to go back!”
Nevermore cocked his head, feathers ruffling in amusement. “Oh I wouldn’t worry that much about it. Aside from getting outed as a crazy lady, I can’t imagine that they could press any charges. They have to prove intent to do that. And I am pretty sure you didn’t intend to dive into that pool.”
“You don’t get it!” I snapped, pacing in tight circles. “Intent doesn’t matter when you’ve got a record like mine! I already have priors for trespassing and public indecency. I only avoided jail time because I was diagnosed with narcolepsy and a hormonal disorder!”
“Hmm, a fair misdiagnosis,” Nevermore said, with a dry chuckle. “Lycanthropy isn’t exactly covered in med school.”
I ignored him. “Judge Childs already ordered me to get psychotherapy because she thinks I’m neglecting my treatment. If the courts think I doing this for YouTube clout, I’m fucked! Do you get that?”
“Perhaps a friendly scare might ensure their silence,” he suggested. “Children are remarkably impressionable.”
“No!” I shouted, spinning toward him again. “We can’t go around threatening kids! That only makes it worse!”
“Well,” he said mildly, “the boy likely plans to show the video to all his friends. At his age, it’s practically inevitable.”
I opened my mouth to retort, but pain shot up my spine before I could speak.
The terrier had seized its chance, its jaws snapping shut around my tail like a spring-loaded trap. I yelped and I spun in a frantic circle, trying to dislodge the little menace.
“Let go, you little—ack!” I gasped as Monty coiled tighter around my neck, her golden scales tightening down on my windpipe. Staggering, I reached for the terrier with one hand while trying to pry Monty’s grip loose with the other. Each spin only sent the dog swinging, its jaws stubbornly clamped onto my tail.
“Chasing your tail, are we?” Nevermore glided down, his tone laced with dry amusement. “How delightfully on-brand.”
“Not... helping!” I rasped. The pain in my ribs—from Monty's crushing me earlier—flared as I strained myself in an attempt to grab the dog. Monty’s strength hadn’t waned since our scuffle in the pool, it was only being tapped down. I sent a sharp mental command to Monty: Heel. She froze momentarily, loosening her grip just enough to let me breathe, but I could since her agitation only simmered beneath the surface.
The terrier’s presence was setting her off, and it was becoming clear that my earlier escape plan had failed spectacularly. The terrier was free and continued to trigger Monty’s defensive behavior over and over again. If I didn’t get her home soon, I’d be gearing up for round two of Wolf vs. Python.
Despite the potential danger the situation entailed, the wolf yawned in the back of my mind. Her indifference felt like a passenger leaning against the window while the driver struggled to keep the car on the road. She wanted to return to her nap and clearly believed her job was done.
I wasn’t sure what would happen if the wolf fully withdrew at this point, but considering the fatigue I’d experience this morning when I tried to transform by myself, I didn’t want to find out what would happen now. I’d probably black out only to find myself at the mercy of a hungry and enraged Monty, too weak to fight back.
Don’t you dare check out now, I thought, trying to drag her back into focus.
Her reply was a low growl, though, one that was more exasperated than angry.
Nevermore landed lightly on a low-hanging branch, tilting his head as he studied me. “You seem to be unraveling, Miss Avery. Might I suggest delegating some responsibility to me?”
“What... do you mean?” I managed, still wrestling with Monty as my vision blurred—a supernatural being I may be, but immune to a lack of blood flow to the brain I was not.
“Well, you’re clearly preoccupied,” he said, flicking a wing as if to point at the snake around my neck. “Perhaps I can handle our young documentarians. Children are quite imaginative creatures, and a little narrative intervention can do wonders.”
“You’re suggesting we scare them?” I tightened my grip on Monty as she squirmed, her scales grating against my skin.
“Scare? No, no,” he said, his tone mockingly affronted. “Merely provide them with a story. Something fantastical enough to sate their curiosity such that they won't go looking for their own answers.”
“How does that help me?” I demanded, panting as Monty began to relax.
“Children’s minds are like little fires—they burn brightest when fueled. What I propose will redirect the blaze.” Nevermore spread his wings wide, like the arms of a preacher giving a sermon. “Think about it, those children are still young enough to believe in the monsters and boogeyman that their parents tell them don’t exist. Yet, now, they’ve seen something that only validates what their minds want to believe is true.”
Nevermore hopped off the branch, alighting onto my shoulder, the energy in his voice growing by the second—contrasting with the growing feeling of apprehension in my gut.
“Now enter me, and talking bird, spinning tales of wonder to explain what they’ve seen such that their secrecy becomes of the utmost importance. It’s a simpler solution than leaving them to find the truth themselves. Don't you think?”
“That… that actually sounds worse than threatening them,” I shot back.
“Bah. Worse is subjective,” he said with infuriating calm.
I commanded Monty to heel once again, and her grip finally loosened. Seizing the opportunity, I let go of her and immediately reversed the direction I’d been turning. This shook Nevermore off my shoulder—forcing him to flutter back to the branch—and flung the terrier forward. I caught them with my suit jacket and I began swaddling the little dog, who was still dead set on chewing on my tail. Soon, I had them in a tightly bound bundle. I then pried it off my tail and tucked it under one arm, keeping them restrained as it yipped and wriggled futilely.
“See, Monty,” I panted, gesturing towards the dog, “nothing to worry about anymore. Now calm the fuck down.”
I could feel my knees buckling, and I slumped against a tree as exhaustion washed over me. It wasn’t just mine, but the wolf’s. Whatever she was doing to allow us to transform like this was taxing for the both of us.
“Fine,” I said, returning my attention back to Nevermore. “But this better not come back to bite me in the ass.”
“An inevitability, I think, but one we can hopefully delay,” he replied glibly, taking off the way we’d come.
I eventually pushed myself off the tree and stumbled forward in the direction of home.
----------------------------------------
I made it back to Sandy’s yard and barely mustered the strength to hop this fence as well—I hadn’t the keys to open the gate. I instructed Coy to let Emma and himself through the front door as I began to unwrap the terrier.
“Alley-oop,” I said, and tossed the terrier back over the fence. If landing unceremoniously in the bushes phased them at all, they showed no sign. Instead, they bolted off barking, running the fence’s length as if trying to find another way in. My hope was that they'd eventually lose interest and return home.
The wolf stirred, yawning in a silent stretch before she curled up and withdrew, receding into the recesses of my mind.
I didn’t get far before the dizziness hit.
The sensation hadn't a gradual onset or some kind of warning. Instead, it hit more like a freight train. One moment I was upright; the next, the world tilted violently, and I barely had time to register the damp grass before my face made contact, slamming into it.
My body had become lead, and it suddenly hurt to breathe. Monty’s earlier grip had done a number on my ribs and now my body, which was now in the process of reshaping my bones, only made it worse.
Oh God, I am dying.
I could feel the strain of the transformation grinding through me, my body trying to shift back to human. The wolf present must’ve prevented the process from occurring while I was still in trouble. But now it was trying to make up for lost time.
No wonder she’d wanted out: this was unbearable.
Every muscle burned, caught in a losing battle, trying to force my body to change, but not quite having the strength to do it. Like trying to lift a weight that was just beyond your limits: where success could only be achieved at the cost of severe injury.
I needed it to get my body to stop, to relax, but I had no idea how to tell it to stand down. Yet, if I didn’t get to settle down, I’d probably start having seizures or something equally unpleasant
I groaned, the image of the wolf vivid in my mind—curled up and snoring. She’d abandoned me to suffer.
“Wake up,” I growled. “Don’t just leave me like this.”
Nothing.
“Get up and help me!” I shoved the command toward her, my frustration sharpening the edges of the thought.
Her response was swift—a mental snap. A sharp pain that was rather muted, give the circumstances: just one little agony to add to a heaping pile.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I hissed through gritted teeth, letting my head drop back against the grass.
Every inch of my body trembled, as if every muscle was trying to pull itself apart. Which, I suppose, was what they did normally during a transformation. But now the process lacked—for want of a better word—the moon’s magic, and the process had gotten all gummed up.
I managed to roll onto my back, panting, and stared up at the sky, my vision becoming watery. Monty, oblivious to my suffering, slithered into a more comfortable position, basking in the sun atop my mane. It wasn’t a basket of velvet pillows by any stretch of the imagination, but it was apparently sufficient.
Meanwhile, I was actively trying not to die from my first attempt at a midday transformation.
But, hey, at least one of us was happy.
Testing an idea, I let go of my mind’s metaphorical wheel, as I had the night before when I let the wolf have the controls. But now, without her there to take over, the car just coasted. No one to direct anything—just the painful inertia staying the course.
It also occurred to me that if my life was truly in danger, the wolf would’ve stepped in, just like she had when Monty tried to eat me. She probably knew this process—painful as it was—was more or less foolproof and opted to let me suffer through it on my own—the bitch.
I lay there in the grass, blinded by the noon day sun, willing my body to wind down. The spasms and twisting slowly ebbed, though the ache continued to linger. It seemed like the effort required to transform was tied to the act itself—the reshaping of bone and muscle—but not in maintaining the form once it was achieved. That once things were settled into place, they could stay that way.
But that only begged more questions. Such as: How did my body decide which form to take?
I’d never consciously willed myself back into a human shape after a night under the moon. It just... happened. Initially, my thought had been that my body would revert to human, my default form, once the supernatural force behind the transformations ebbed—after the moon set. Just like in every werewolf movie.
But the fact that I now found myself more or less stuck as a werewolf seemed to contradict that hypothesis. Energy, will, or something, was required to transform my body from one form to another.
It wasn't conscious thought, that was for sure. Otherwise, I’d have found myself stuck as a wolf after every full moon. Perhaps, the form I took was dependent on the identity of the one behind the wheel. When I believed myself human, my body worked to return to that state. When the wolf took over, everything shifted to match her. This half-way form being the result when we both were behind the wheel—be it through our combined effort or refusal to let go.
Whichever the case, the wolf seemed to have a more intuitive, or perhaps instinctual, understanding of this process. Not surprising considering that she was basically a manifestation of my curse: the other side of the coin. As for me, the process was an uphill battle. I didn’t know shit about what I was doing.
My chest rose and fell as I stared at my clawed hands, imagining them as mine—not foreign, not wrong, just part of me. Assuming the identity hypothesis held, then, if I wanted to move forward, I’d have to accept this halfway form as who I was.
At least for now.
Slowly, I tried convincing myself that my pawed feet and furred limbs were natural, something that belonged to me. There was no need to change into something else.
And, it seemed to be working—until a thought stopped me cold.
What if I convinced myself too well?
What if I truly believed I wasn’t human anymore? Would I ever be able to change back?
Panic flared in my chest, and with it, the shifting began again. Bones ground against each other, and my body protested with a sharp, splitting pain.
“Dammit,” I hissed, frustrated at my own subconscious. “Get it together.”
I took a steadying breath, forcing the panic down. People wore masks all the time, didn’t they? Every day, I clocked in at the Moxy, smiled at customers I didn’t care about, and played the part of the perfect employee. Once you joined the workforce, pretending to be someone you weren’t was something ground into you, eventually becoming second nature.
So why would pretending to be that which goes bump in the night be any different?
If I needed to play a role to get through the day, then that was fine. I could be AJ, an accountant in wolf-clothes, as long as needed to.
The spasms subsided, and my body settled. Fur still clung stubbornly to my skin, my claws hadn’t receded in the slightest. Nor did I need a mirror to know my face still sported a muzzle and sharp teeth. This was now my natural state, the way I was meant to be… for the time being.
Pushing myself to sit upright, I tested a tentative stretch. My joints ached, but they held steady. Touching my snout, I ran a claw over my elongated teeth. A wolf-mask for my wolf-clothes.
My attention snapped to the sound of the backdoor creaking open, followed by the sounds of dozens of paws clicking excitedly across the porch. Clearly, Coy had entered the house and decided to let his fellow dogs out. Moments later I was being swarmed by all the dogs, their cold noses prodding me from every angle. It wasn’t clear to me what they found so interesting about my current state. I mean, they had already seen me as a wolf before. But, perhaps, I was covered with sufficiently new and novel smells to find entertaining.
I was like a beauty catalogue for dogs, the ones with the peel-able sample tabs that let you smell the new perfumes.
In today's issue, featuring AJ, Wolf Accountant, we have: Dirt, Grass, and Chlorinated Pool Water.
The dogs sniffed and nudged, tails wagging wildly, and I just sat there, too sore to move. Like the day before, their emotions hit me like a tidal wave—curiosity, joy, and a chaotic energy that made my head spin. At first I tried to resist the feelings, as I had yesterday, but then I remembered I was supposed to play the role of wolf.
Let the emotions flow through you—join the Dog Side.
What was the worst that could happen? That I get the zoomies?
I took a deep inhale, imagining myself tensing up, then exhaled slowly, and imagined my body relaxing. Not the most sophisticated form of meditation, but it often did the trick for me. My body followed my mind, and I felt myself loosening up. Which, in turn, allowed me to open up to the cacophony of the dogs’ thoughts.
I would say that the results were made somewhat lackluster by the soreness and fatigue I was experiencing in the moment. What filled me would be best described as an overwhelming giddiness followed by an impulsive desire to run in circles, roll on the ground, and play a game of tag—or just chase something. However, when I tried to act on this instinct, I was painfully reminded that I was in no shape to do either of these things. Save for perhaps rolling on the ground.
What was more noteworthy was the wolf’s response to the sudden surge of emotion. The wolf, who’d been quietly napping, was taken by surprise as the wave of feeling crashed into her. I could feel the abrupt jolt of her waking in panic—as if woken by an airhorn. Confusion and enraged, she was a sleeping dog that I didn’t let lie.
She rushed to the forefront of my mind, in full attack mode, only to find the driver seat empty. No threat. No danger. Just false alarm and a wheel rocking back and forth on its own accord, while I did much the same in the grass.
With a huff, and what I could only describe as a sense of parental disapproval, as if I were the unruly pup in this situation, the wolf once again retreated to the back of my mind and curled up.
Hey, you made me do this, I thought at her, to which she didn’t dignify a response.
Monty tightened around my neck, and I suddenly remembered why I’d rushed home in the first place. Fighting through the sensory overload, I dragged myself to my feet, commanding the dogs to give me some space. They didn’t entirely listen, but they let me shuffle past them, their noses still twitching as they followed.
Inside, I made my way to Monty’s enclosure. She coiled around my arm as I unwound Monty from my neck, but slid off easily as I set her into her sunning basket.
“Time to relax,” I said, as I slowly buried her with the pillows. She poked out her head, tongue flickering, and settled in.
“One more down,” I muttered, running a clawed hand through my matted mane. The chlorine from the pool was making my skin itch. Along with the dirt, twigs, and leaves stuck in my fur, the feeling was becoming unbearable, making me uncomfortable in my own skin—and pelt.
On top of that, my ribs continued to throbbed.
Human or not, I needed a shower.
When I glanced at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and winced. My fur was stiff and patchy, caked with grass and grime, and my damp clothes clung to me like a second skin. I looked at my legs and mourned the wasted effort I spent this morning trying to shave them. I’d need hedge-trimmers now.
Learning from my past mistakes, I made sure that I had a towel ready, and I also brought my clothes from the dryer too. Once I was showered and in clean clothes, perhaps I’d be in a better headspace to try shifting back again. Hopefully, I could figure this out before JT came back. Explaining to him why the Big Bad Wolf was in his sister’s house, and how it had lost her dog, was not a conversation I wished to engage in.
The sooner I figured out how to get out of my wolf-clothes, the sooner I could head into town and find Boden.
After a minute of shepherding the dogs that had followed me into the bathroom back out into the hall, I closed the door and disrobed. Sure enough, even under my clothing I was covered in a thick pelt. Not a single square itch of skin was spared. Nor was the tattoo on my back visible at all.
One problem at a time, I suppose.
I decided I had time for one more experiment. Sitting onto the rim of the tub, I inhaled and exhaled, performing my standard breathing exercises and tried to focus on, well, being human. I closed my eyes, trying to imagine myself as normal AJ again, visualizing my normal hands, feet with toes, and smooth, furless skin.
At some point I must have blacked out from the strain.
It was hard to tell since my eyes were closed, but I was pretty sure I’d passed out. I’d been sitting in one moment, and, in the next, I was in the tub being greeted with a pounding headache. It appeared that I'd fallen backward and smacked my noggin on the other side of the tub.
Emma, Rosie, and Annie were also in the tub with me, licking my face in an attempt to resuscitate me. Maggie leaned over the edge, her eyes filled with concern, while the rest of the pack crowded into the bathroom. I felt a tug on my tail and groggily reached for it, only to pull up the terrier from earlier.
“How’d you get in here?” I growled. “Coy, did you leave the door open?”
Coy huffed innocently, but we both knew he wasn’t fooling anyone.
Bracing myself to stand to get up, I tried to reach for the edge of the tub, grabbing the shower knob instead. An icy blast of water shot out, soaking me and the dogs in one cold sweep.
The tub erupted into barks and yips as the dogs scrambled to escape. I waved them out, herding them through the doorway.
“All of you, out! And someone keep an eye on that little menace,” I said, pointing at the terrier who, at some point, seemed to have ingratiated themself amongst the other dogs—just one of the pack now.
The water heated up as I stepped under the spray, only to immediately crank the temperature way down. Normally, I preferred my showers just a few degrees below scalding, but now the only temperature I could tolerate would’ve left regular me freezing her ass off. New body, new preferences, it seemed.
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If saving on the electric bill was a silvering lining of lycanthropy, I’d take whatever I could get.
In hindsight, I should’ve brushed before bathing. Loose fur accumulated about the drain with astonishing regularity, and I had a lot of it. Each time I thought I was done, it wasn’t more than mere moments that another wad of fur built itself up and blocked the flow.
Then came the debate over shampoo and conditioner. Sandy’s supply was the same Garnier Fructis she’d stocked for JT, but it occurred to me that human shampoo would irritate a dog's skin—didn't want to make myself itchier. But then again, I wasn’t technically a dog—even though I may be suffering from similar characteristics. Ultimately, I decided that, if I was going to be hairy from head to foot, I might as well make hair silky smooth.
Not exactly L’Oréal, but, baby, I was worth it.
My thick coat devoured as much shampoo as I could scrub in it. The shower had one of those removable heads, which made rinsing more manageable and kept water out of my ears. That, I learned quickly, was an unexpectedly miserable sensation. Water in my human ears wasn’t all that pleasant either, but it paled in comparison. With my ear now large, and more sensitive, the sensation was akin to having an the tips of a stethoscope shoved down your ear canal while the other end was used as a tiny drum.
No wonder dogs hated baths so much.
By the time I finished shampooing myself, I’d emptied the bottle, and the drain was entirely clogged.
The conditioner didn’t last much longer.
So, all-in-all, I wouldn’t say lycanthropy was all that economic in terms of bathing. Sure, I might save on heating costs, but I’d blow it all on shampoo and conditioner. Not to mention it’d be hell on the plumbing.
Next came drying off. I’d remembered a towel this time, but it was woefully inadequate for my soggy self. I was certain that my pelt held more water than a single towel could handle. Sandy kept a hairdryer in the bathroom drawer I could use, though I suspected I’d need a leaf blower to do the job right.
Still, it was worth a shot.
As I fanned myself with the dryer, an odd itch started crawling down my spine. It wasn’t a normal itch that you could scratch—more like the urge to sneeze. It built slowly, growing stronger by the second.
Before I could figure out what was happening, my body acted on its own.
A full-body shake rippled through me, starting at my head and traveling all the way to my tail.
Water sprayed in every direction, drenching the walls, floor, ceiling, and mirror.
Dizzy and disoriented, I staggered back, grabbing the sink to steady myself.
When the world stopped spinning, I surveyed the disaster.
Strands of dark, wet fur clung to every surface, in stark contrast with the pale bathroom tiles.
I wiped a patch of mirror clean and stared at my reflection.
My fur stuck out in wild tufts, like I’d stuck a finger in an outlet.
All that left was toweling off my legs—which was a more manageable process compared to my entire body. But, as expedient as my shake-off had been, once you factored in the clean-up, I wasn’t saving that much time after all.
Next time I’d by sure to stay in the shower.
Even better, I’d left my change of clothes on the sink countertop, and they’d gotten a thorough coating of... well... me. Even if I managed to return to human form, the smell of wet dog was going to haunt me for days to come.
After brushing and blow-drying myself as best I could, I made a mental note to buy a dog brush to the growing list of things I either need to buy, or compensate Sandy for. I'd broken most the teeth off her comb, and was now using a brush that was all too small to use on my entire body.
While I was sure Sandy had several dog brushes lying around, god knew there was no way I was sharing one with another dog. I had standards.
Cracking the bathroom door, I peeked out to make sure JT wasn’t home yet, then darted into the guest room.
It looked exactly how I’d left it this morning: a mess of blankets and pillows strewn across the floor. And, in the middle of it sat a garden gnome, its red hat bearing deep teeth marks where it had been used as a chew toy.
My chew toy.
Well, not by me, obviously, but by the wolf in me. She’d picked it up at some point—a little souvenir from her recent nighttime escapade. And though I could recall much of the previous night, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall which yard she’d stolen it from; the tracks we’d followed led through half a dozen suburban neighborhoods, with countless yards. Any of which might have once been home to a now missing garden gnome.
A mystery best left unsolved.
I turned my attention to the act of dressing, or lack there of.
My tail made putting on underwear awkward but still manageable. Jeans, however, were a no-go. Technically, I could wear them like an early-2000s rapper, sagging them low enough to accommodate the tail. But that wasn’t my style.
Fortunately, I’d spotted a pair of JT’s scrubs in the laundry room. Baggy, soft, and with plenty of leg space, they’d work much like sweatpants and had enough room to accommodate a tail. I’d already been caught wearing Sandy’s clothes by JT, so I might as well go for broke.
Moving to the upstairs, I wrestled with my sports bra, which was much tighter than usual thanks to my new—fluffier—physique. With my ribs still sore from Monty’s scaly embrace, it made moving, and breathing, rather unpleasant, and I eventually gave up on it. But going half-commando was still better than full-commando..
At least my turtleneck went on easily enough, though my fur puffed out from the cuffs and collar, making it look like I was wearing a fur-lined sweater.
Bottomless, I made my way back to the laundry room to find JT’s pants and I sniffed them to... you know... make sure they were clean. Once back in the guestroom I pulled on JT’s scrubs to complete my ensemble.
I stepped back and took in the full picture in the mirror.
The sight was enough to make a grown woman cry.
But, I was cleaned and clothed, so I seated myself on the floor. It was time for another try at transforming myself.
Making sure I was close enough to hit my head against this time. I decided that focusing solely on my feet, and nothing else. The idea was that this might reduce the strain into something more bite-sized that I could handle. If I could just make them human-enough to hide in a pair of shoes, I’d be good to go.
Pain lanced through my legs as my toes started to shift, bones popping in protest. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the transformation to continue, imagining myself as a werewolf that could wear sneakers—a wolf in street clothes. The sensation of my bone and muscle reshaping was not unlike how I’d imagine having legs turned to paste under the wheels of a steam roller would be. Perhaps, over time, I’d get desensitized to the sensation, but right now, I could only tolerate it for barely a half-minute.
When I opened my eyes to observe my progress, I was dismayed to see that, while my feet were a little more human-like than before, moving them further into the territory of Uncanny Valley, they were still clearly the feet of a werewolf. Or a wolf-like human. Or, perhaps, a mascot.
You could go either way.
More importantly, they were still inadequate for wearing shoes, except for, maybe, rain boots.
When I tried to stand, I immediately crumpled back to the floor.
My feet felt like I’d run them over broken glass barefoot: not unlike the pins and needles you get when your legs fall asleep, but cranked up to eleven. While my half-assed transformation hadn’t changed my feet’s outward appearance all that much, it had done a number on their internal wiring.
Apparently, I could hobble myself.
I rolled onto my back, clutching my feet, stringing together lines of profanity that would surely demonetize any Youtube video.
“Having difficulties, are we?”
The voice, smooth and sardonic, came from the desk behind me.
My head snapped toward the desk. There sat Solomon, paws tucked neatly under him, his tail flicking lazily.
“Where the hell have you been?” I growled, sitting upright.
He stretched, his back arching and claws extending. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” he said, as he began to lick his paw.
“I’m in this mess because of you.” I glared up at the cat, all the while still rubbing my feet to get the prickling to stop.
“Me?” His ears twitched. “Whatever did I do? Besides, perhaps, tell you what you should have already known?”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. You withheld information and let me get roped into walking the dog after the moon rose. That’s why so many familiars went missing.” I felt myself growling, a low rubble in my chest, and was surprised to realize that I was the one doing it, not the wolf. She was still curled up in the back of my mind.
No, all the wolfing around now was all me.
The longer I was in my wolf-clothes, the more they seemed to fit.
Solomon began rubbing his face with his paw, his movements unhurried. “I wouldn’t call wandering around missing. They are free spirited creatures after all.” Solomon continued grooming himself slowly, methodically. Meanwhile I continued to glare at him.
Eventually, he returned my look.
“You’re also assuming I’m under any obligation to help you. That is not the case. And, if fact, you could say I’ve only ever been altruistic toward you.”
“Oh, really?” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Pray tell. What altruism do you plan to subject me to now?”
“The presence of my company.”
“You’re shitting me.”
Solomon yawned, his teeth flashing. Then, he stood, stretched, and hopped over to the bed where he rolled onto his side like a cat inviting you to rub its belly. But his placement was just out of reach, as if to taunt me.
“Do continue,” he drawled, his voice thick with mock encouragement. “I won’t get in your way.”
I clenched my fists, forcing myself to focus on my feet again. If I could just manage this small thing—if I could make them usable, enough to stand up and slap a cat—I’d call it a win.
The sensation in my feet lessened, becoming bearable even, but I couldn’t seem to make much if any progress on their appearance. I could feel my body’s desire to change—my desire to change—but there seemed to be a wall I was pushing up against that I couldn’t break through.
From the corner of my eye, Solomon stretched languidly, his movements slow and deliberate, ending with a theatrical yawn.
“Fine!” I snapped, my patience unraveling. “I could use your help with this. That’s why you’re here, right? To provide me with wisdom or instruction?”
His whiskers twitched with what I could only interpret as amusement.
“I think you misunderstand my reason for being here,” he said.
I glared up at him, raising an eyebrow. “Then why the hell are you here?”
“Company, as I said. That, and I’m waiting for you to finish these silly exercises,” he said, matter-of-factually. “It’s time for lunch, you see, and I’m feeling rather peckish. Aren’t you?”
“No.” I said flatly.
The thought of food churned my stomach. Images of the partially eaten buck flashed through my mind, and any appetite I might have mustered vanished.
“Even if that was the case, you can’t neglect the needs of your charges,” Solomon said, his voice pointed, a subtle edge in his tone.
I reached for my purse and dug out my phone, sighing when I saw the time. It was well past noon, and that meant it was time to feed the animals. Testing my feet, which had dulled slightly in their sensitivity, I stood shakily and grabbed JT’s checklist. I left my opened purse onto the desk, next to the garden gnome.
Skipping this chore wasn’t an option. After all the effort I’d gone through to herd the familiars back home, the last thing I needed was for the animals to turn on me because I didn’t feed them. Phin and Ferb were hell on wheels when they were hungry, and the parliament of owls was already plotting a coup. One more deviation in the schedule would only fan the fires—I could feel it.
The reptiles—Cassy and Camelia included—were blissfully indifferent to my werewolf form, focused entirely on their meals. The guinea pigs, equally unconcerned, twitched their noses eagerly as I distributed leafy greens. The fish were likewise more fixated only on the food, but the ducks around the Koi pond were spooked by my appearance. They flew a short distance away, honking agitatedly all the while, allowing me to leave out their frozen peas without my fingers getting assaulted.
Another silver-lining when you thought about it.
Then there were Phin and Ferb.
“Yip-yip!” Phin squawked, his call echoing eerily like an overexcited terrier.
“Yap-yap!” Ferb chimed in, the two birds bouncing on their perches. Together they sounded part dog, part Sesame Street Martian.
My hand settled down on a Ziploc bag of pumpkin seeds, as I watched them warily. “Alright, what’s this about?”
“Yip-yip-yip!” Phin barked louder, his head bobbing as though urging me toward a particular shelf.
“Yap-yap-yap-yap!” Ferb’s cries slowed as I moved away, only to speed up as I drew nearer again.
Trying to piece together their little game, my first thought was that it was some bastardization of Hotter-Colder. But, as the minutes ticked by, their barking cues only sent me in circles. Either the two of them weren’t on the same page, or they were screwing with me.
Eventually, their antics defeated my patience.
“Alright, enough!” I snapped, turning on them. “Make up your mind, or you’re getting the trail mix.”
The two birds howled in protest, so I proceeded to take out the trail mix I’d made from them earlier today, measuring it out into two small dishes. Phin and Ferb descend the trail mix greedily, their playful yips replaced by their suggestive moaning, and I realized that the feathery imbeciles had in fact been trolling me the whole time.
When I returned to the kitchen, the door to the garage was wide open, and every dog in the house had gathered inside, tails wagging and eyes locked on the rows of bowls lined along the floor. Coy, master of doors, the smug instigator of chao, sat at the bottom of the stairs his body wiggling in anticipation.
Maggie and Murray sat patiently near the threshold, their disciplined presence a stark contrast to the eager crowd in the garage beyond. The barking began the moment I hefted the bag of kibble, its contents shaking, its packing crinkling. The sea of fur parted as I approached, dogs shifting aside to make way—all except for one.
The Jack Russell from earlier planted themself squarely in my path, their tiny body taut with defiance, teeth bared in a soft growl.
“Don’t even think about it,” I said, pointing a clawed finger at them. “Bite my tail again, and you’ll get nothing to eat.”
I rattled the bag of kibble for emphasis. “You’d like something to eat, right?”
The terrier tilted their head, her growl subsiding as she appeared to weigh their options. Food or tail. Which was more deserving of their bite.
Hunger won out.
“Good call,” I muttered. “Now, what’s your name? Every menace needs a name.”
I reached out with my thoughts, projecting the question. Her response came back instantly, a simple, sharp sound: Skeet.
“Skeet? Weird name for a dog,” I said. Though, the more I thought about it the name, the more appropriate it felt, because I could see myself using her for target practice.
With Skeet watching intently, I worked my way through the pack alphabetically, filling bowls with methodical precision. When I reached Boden’s bowl, my hand hesitated. He was still somewhere out there, roaming Charleston, and the thought gnawed at me.
I didn’t have time to mope. Not while I was stuck in wolf-clothes, barely able to function. Sure, I could wait for moonrise and try to convince the wolf to take over and search for Boden, but that would depend on her cooperation—and the risk of waking up in someone’s yard again wasn’t exactly high on my list of desirable outcomes.
Skeet’s growls grew louder as I finally reached the S’s. She was growing impatient and I could sense her thoughts returning to my tail. I laid Boden’s bowl, a massive dish for one so tiny, in front of her and filled it a similar amount to Annie’s bowl—the two dogs appeared roughly the same weight.
“Guests eat first,” I said as I set her bowl down. “But you’re not a guest—you’re a menace.”
I went to prepare the wet food for Maggie and Murray, and my stomach growled involuntarily as I opened the cans. These were Purina Pro Plan: Beef and Rice Entrees, and despite being nauseated by the idea of craving dog food, I nonetheless felt a ravenous hunger.
So, I did have an appetite after all.
It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. During full moons, I’d often fed the wolf canned dog food to keep her satiated—a practice I tolerated only because I was usually drunk at the time. But now? Sober, in broad daylight, and smelling dog food like it was fine cuisine? The revulsion hit harder.
I was supposed to be vegetarian, damn it, and I was cheating on my commitment with dog food.
Fortunately, I had a distraction. I turned to the next name on JT’s list. I’d been saving the best—and worst—for last.
Carl.
Pulling a cafeteria tray from the cabinet, I began assembling his meal with care: boiled eggs, cut vegetables, and grapes. No banana chips. Before leaving the kitchen, I double-checked my pockets to ensure they were empty. Carl didn’t need any extra opportunities to make my life miserable.
Balancing the tray, I strode down the hall and kicked open his door.
“Time to eat, Carl!”
The monkey’s scream was immediate and satisfying. He’d been lounging on his little pink swing, rocking contentedly, but my sudden arrival, and wolfish appearance, sent him flying from his seat into the corner of his enclosure. Now he huddled there, cowering in wide-eyed terror.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
“Relax, Carl,” I said, sliding the tray through the narrow opening and grinning just wide enough to show him all my teeth. “I'm not going to eat you. At least, not like this—you’re just skin and bone.”
I crouched to his level, resting my chin on the edge of the enclosure, my nose against the bar.
“We’ve got to fatten you up first, Carl.”
Carl didn’t move. His beady eyes flicked between me and the food, his tiny hands twitching.
“Oh, Carl,” I said, making my voice as saccharin as I could manage, “you worry too much. If you just behave, I’ll have no reason to eat you. No misbehaving. Simple as that.”
Still the monkey didn’t move towards his food. That was fine. All part of the plan.
I pointed to the tray. “Don’t forget—not finishing your food counts as misbehaving.”
The gears in his head were now visibly turning, his small brain trying to process the catch-22 he’d been saddled with. But that was the name of that game: human AJ was good cop, and wolf AJ was bad cop. I wanted to give Carl a reason to behave for good AJ. And, since I was stuck in my wolf-clothes, there was no better time to introduce Carl to the big bag future consequence of his actions.
His gaze darted from me to the tray and back again, a trapped animal debating whether the devil it knew was better than the one it didn’t.
“Go on, Carl,” I said, making my voice suddenly cold. “Eat. Up.”
I stood back, crossing my arms and fixing him with a steady, unblinking stare. Unnerving the little dude in my current appearance didn’t take much effort. It was a less-is-more sort of thing: stand there, let the natural intimidation of a werewolf in full fur and fangs do the work.
Carl finally caved, hopping up to the tray and shoving food into his mouth at an alarming pace. His tiny hands darted between the tray and his face, stuffing grapes and vegetables until his cheeks bulged.
For a moment, guilt flickered at the edges of my mind. Then I remembered how he’d tried to shoot me last night. In the ass. With my gun.
So, yeah—Carl deserved a little indigestion.
He finished quickly, burping slightly as he hopped back onto his perch.
“Very good, Carl,” I said, clapping my hands together in mock approval. I retrieved the tray with a flourish. “Be good, now. I’ll be back soon.”
Normally, tormenting small animals was a definitive sociopathic behavior. But this was different. I was helping Carl. Whether through tough love or sheer terror, I’d teach him to behave—and then maybe teach him a little gun safety while I was at it, for good measure.
The sound of clanging metal greeted me as I returned to the kitchen.
There was Solomon, perched on the table, casually rattling a small bowl with his paw.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked, narrowing my eyes as Solomon batted the small bowl.
“From the cabinet. Obviously.”
“You know we don’t have cat food.”
“You do, however, have canned salmon,” he replied, his voice maddeningly even. “It’s in the pantry, below the dried lentils. I request a can.”
I crossed my arms. “Well, Mr. Know-It-All, seems like you can handle things yourself.”
He flicked his tail with exaggerated nonchalance. “And you may have noticed that I lack opposable thumbs. I require your assistance.”
“How is it that you can look so much like a cat but act like such an asshole?”
“Practice.”
With a sigh, I headed to the pantry. Sure enough, the salmon was exactly where he said it would be.
“Grab one of those Purinas while you’re at it,” he called after me, his tone as casual as someone ordering at a drive-thru.
I plucked a can of dog food—another beef and rice—from the shelf, muttering, “What, you in the mood for surf and turf?”
He didn’t respond.
Cracking open the salmon, I poured the brine into the sink before pulling the lid the rest of the way off. When I went to open the Purina, Solomon raised a paw.
“Just the salmon for me, if you please.”
Then why the hell did you make me grab the Purina? I thought but bit my tongue.
I scooped the salmon into the bowl with a fork and began breaking the chunks with the fork.
“That will be sufficient,” he said, and I placed the bowl in front of him. He leaned in to eat the salmon with deliberate, dainty bites.
I slumped into the chair across from him, arms crossed, watching as he slowly worked his way through the bowl, but less halfway through, I broke.
“So, what is it you actually want? Don’t tell me you’re just here for food. You prompted me to feed the animals, and you made me grab that extra can on purpose. So, out with it.”
He kept eating, his pace unchanged, chewing with the kind of calm that made my teeth grind. When he finally paused, he licked his mouth, then his paw, swiping it over his face in slow, deliberate strokes.
So many animals to throttle, yet so little time.
At last, Solomon looked up, his amber eyes meeting mine with unnerving intensity.
“Tell me, when was the last time you ate?”
I frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“It has everything to do with everything.” His gaze drilled into me. “So? When?”
“Ugh...”
“Let me guess,” he said smoothly. “A bit of that deer you and your pack were snacking on, perhaps?”
“What? No! I’ve had breakfast.”
“And that was?”
“...Coffee and a donut,” I muttered.
His flat stare was scorching, the kind of look you’d give an idiot child.
“Ah, yes. Just what every growing lycanthrope needs. Flour and sugar.”
I bristled. “Look, I haven’t had an appetite since last night, alright? I’m vegetarian—I don’t like meat. And after... you know… the deer. I haven’t felt like eating.”
“And what about your other half? Your Little Miss Moody?” He gestured lazily with a paw, his tone dripping with faux concern. “I can’t help but notice you’re having a bit of a bad hair day. One wonders how you got yourself into this predicament.”
I opened my mouth to argue but stopped. What could I say? That I was in this predicament because one of the familiars tried to eat me? That wasn’t what Solomon was getting at, and I knew it. My stomach hadn’t stopped growling since I’d prepared Maggie and Murray’s food.
Solomon’s ears flicked, his head tilting slightly. He’d clearly heard it too.
“I assume you’ve noticed a change in your appetite, ever since you acquired your… passenger” Solomon said, breaking the silence with pointed calm. “You could say you’re eating for two. I wonder how your other half feels about you starving yourself.”
“So, what?” I asked, sitting up. “She’s being moody because she’s hungry?”
Solomon gave me a long, slow blink—an ordinary cat mannerism made somehow condescending on a mug like his.
“I believe the term your generation uses is hangry. And I suspect you’ve noticed that without the moon, your ability to shapeshift is more taxing than usual. Reshaping yourself takes strength, and, without the moon to guide you, that strength must come from somewhere. A different source."
Solomon paused, as if giving me time to process, before continuing.
"One, I might add, that you’ve been neglecting due to your... less-than-robust dietary habits.”
I sighed, the realization sinking in.
“So. What? I just need to eat something? That’s it?"
Here, have a snickers—you're not yourself when you're hungry.
“Oh, sure,” he said, his tone growing more amused. “You could nibble on some leafy greens, maybe toss in some tofu for protein. But you might consider this: wolves, like all dogs, are highly food-motivated. If you want her cooperation, might I suggest eating something she enjoys? Somehow, I don’t think she’ll be inspired by a kale salad.”
“Great,” I muttered. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that? I don’t have time to go hunting again, and it’s not like I can go shopping while looking like this. What am I supposed to—”
Solomon’s head turned toward the counter behind me, and I followed his gaze to the can of dog food I’d left out earlier.
“Oh,” I muttered. “Right.”
My stomach twisted, growling softly in betrayal.
“Why don’t you grab a fork and come join me?” Solomon said, turning back to his salmon, his voice positively dripping with smug satisfaction.
----------------------------------------
I held the fork in midair, the chunk of beef and rice dripping in gravy hovering inches from my mouth. The wolf stirred in the back of my mind, her interest undeniable, but I stopped myself, clenching the utensil tightly.
“Your turn,” I muttered, projecting the smell of the food toward her like an offering.
Her presence pressed closer, an eager tug at the forefront of my consciousness. She liked this game. Too much, if I were honest.
Scattered across the table were three empty cans of wet dog food. My initial attempt to keep it at one had failed—the wolf knew she had leverage, and how to use it. My stomach growled in protest, not just from hunger, but from the absurdity of what I was doing.
“Stubborn mutt,” I muttered under my breath.
The wolf didn’t respond in words, but I felt the equivalent of an impatient huff—a demand that I hold up my end of the deal. She wasn’t taking the wheel without some incentive.
The wolf’s cravings bled into mine, making the idea of taking another bite... tolerable. And with my wolf-like sense still intact, the taste and smell was even bordering on decent.
I gave in, sliding the chunk off the fork with my teeth. The wolf surged forward as I chewed, savoring the flavor I fed her.
“There,” I grumbled, swallowing. “Happy now?”
She didn’t answer, but my fingers tingled, the claws softening and retracting as the skin shifted back to its human texture. The wolf always delivered, but the terms were clear: no food, no cooperation.
I glanced at my hands—normal enough to pass as human, as long as no one got close enough to see that I wasn’t wearing nail extensions. My feet, too, were human-shaped again and could be hidden within a pair of shoes. And, of course, there was my face, that was now back to normal and free of any unwanted hair—I’d eaten an entire extra can to get the wolf to help me with that.
But, looking human didn’t mean I was. I’d negotiated for superficial changes—the visible parts of me. Beneath the skin, the beast still lurked.
Beneath the clothes, fur galore.
It was a decision made to conserve whatever energy was left, and to avoid further compromise—I didn’t want to eat more dog food than absolutely necessary.
I could pass in public, as long as I didn’t wear sandals or grin too wide for a photo.
The fourth can sat unopened beside me, but my stomach churned at the thought of eating more, but the wolf poured her appetite into me and I found myself reaching for the can.
“You’re worse than a loan shark,” I muttered, cracking it open. I caught myself sniffing. “A loan wolf.”
Objectively, it wasn’t actually that bad. I still had the senses of the wolf, tongue included, and, with her in the seat next to me—in the mental sense—I had a direct link to her cravings and desires. She was enjoying the food, and, thus, so was I.
“Fine,” I sighed, spearing another chunk. “But this is the last one.”
The wolf pressed closer again, hunger laced with smug satisfaction, and we began to work our way through the last can. You know, once I learned to look past the fact I was eating dog food, I was just basically sharing a meal with my wolf. A simple act of communion that wasn't half bad.
Maybe I’d judged the dog food too harshly.
“Should I be concerned?” came a voice from right beside me. I started, mid-swallow, and nearly choked. Coughing, I dropped the fork down and spun towards the voice.
Nevermore—having returned and entered the kitchen without my notice.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I managed hastily, clearing my throat.
He tilted his head, eyes glittering with amusement. “Then what does it look like?”
Damn it. He had me there.
“Fine,” I said, pushing the half-empty can aside. “It’s exactly what it looks like. But it’s the only way I can get back to human form.”
“Surely,” he said, fluttering onto the table, “there’s a more elegant solution.”
I waved a hand in the direction of the table’s other end. “Probably. But little mister Solomon here—oh, come on!”
My eyes darted around the room.
The cat was gone.
Again.
“He Batman’d me.”
Nevermore let out a low caw of intrigue. “Solomon?”
“This cat,” I grumbled, scanning for any trace of him. “He shows up to give me some backhanded advice, and then vanishes. I don’t even know whose familiar he is. Sandy’s? V’s maybe? I don’t know.”
“Sounds charming.”
“Oh, he’s a delight,” I muttered. As I looked around for Solomon, I couldn’t find any trace of him. Even his bowl and can of salmon was gone. But I could still smell the salmon so I knew it wasn’t all in my head. The prick had probably put them away simply to gaslight me.
Nevermore’s gaze fell on the remaining cans of dog food. “So, four cans in. Tell me—are you planning to make this a permanent addition to your diet?”
I scowled. “Wolves are very food-motivated,” I said flatly, parroting Solomon.
“And this was his idea?”
“Well, sort of.” I rubbed my temple, the truth only making it worse. “He didn’t say it had to be dog food. It was just... convenient.”
Nevermore’s feathers fluffed in mock astonishment. “Convenient? You mean to tell me it didn’t have to be dog food? You could’ve made eggs? Sausage? Or, you know, normal food?”
I blinked, then groaned. “Do we even have that?”
“Did you check?”
I dragged a hand down my face as the realization hit me. Solomon had played me. Or maybe it wasn’t just a prank—it felt a bit punitive. As if to say: Eat properly, or eat dog food.
I set the half-empty can on the floor. The wolf protested, but, we'd already reach our end of terms.
Coy was there a moment later to lap it up.
Crossing my arms, I turned to Nevermore. “Alright, enough with my dietary shaming. What’s the update with the kids?”
He preened his feathers, his tone taking on a theatrical flair. “Ah, those little scamps. Quite the inquisitive bunch. First, I’ve deduced how Monty ended up in their yard.”
I sighed. “Let me guess. Skeet.”
“You’re correct,” Nevermore said, his voice carrying a note of amusement. “Our little terrier friend has a habit of, shall we say, acquisitions. Turtles, squirrels, snakes—even once brought home a skunk.” He tilted his head, feathers fluffing. “And it wasn’t even dead. A real stinker, you could say.”
“Fantastic,” I muttered. “Where’d she find Monty?”
“In the woods, I’d imagine. We’re not far from her yard if you cut straight through the trees.”
I squinted at him. “Okay, enough with the side tangent. You’re being cagey. Tell me about the kids. Did you threaten them or not?”
“Oh perish that thought,” he said smoothly, hopping to the back of a chair. “As I said, merely satiated their curiosity.”
“And that sounds dubious as all hell,” I said, arms still crossed. “Explain.”
He hesitated—just long enough to make me suspicious—before tilting his head again. “So, the sister turns out to be quite the negotiator. Kids these days—never been given so much sass from someone so young.”
I stared at him, my patience wearing thin. “Are you telling me you got strong-armed by a seven-year-old? What did they demand?”
“Parker is nine, thank you,” he corrected primly, “and it was nothing unreasonable. I secured their promise never to show the video in exchange for... a small concession.”
My stomach sank. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“After the story I told them, they want to meet you,” he said airily. “And the other animals. Hardly an outrageous request.”
I gaped at him. “That was your brilliant plan? What makes you think they’ll actually keep their promise?”
“It was a magic promise,” he said, as if that explained everything.
“Oh, right. Magic. Of course.” I threw up my hands. “That makes everything better. Did you make it gluten-free too?”
“Well, no wheat was involved. But, given our options, it was the best solution, if you ask me. And they said they’d return the shoe you seemed to have left behind. Rather kind of them, don’t you think?”
“Wonderful,” I muttered, dragging a hand down my face. Somehow, I knew this would come back to bite me. Every magical problem I’d dealt with so far had tried to eat me, shoot me, or force me into public speaking. The sooner I could claw my way back to a normal life, the better.
“I’m going to wash my mouth out." I pushed myself back from the table and stood up. "Thoroughly. Then we’ll head into town to look for Boden. We’ve wasted enough daylight as is.”
As much as I hated this pet-sitting gig, I’d signed up for it, and through hell or high water, I was going to see it through. Life could rob me of my apartment, my job, my smooth skin, and my dignity, but it couldn’t take my work ethic. Even if lycanthropy stripped me of my humanity, that was the one thing that would remain.
Sometimes human, sometimes wolf, but always the professional.
As I turned to leave, Nevermore’s voice followed me, dripping with amusement.
“Tell me—do you plan on keeping the tail?”
Startled, I glanced over my shoulder.
Sure enough, the fluffy appendage, which I'd completely forgotten about, had crept its way out of JT’s scrubs and now swayed cheerfully behind me.
“Oh, goddamnit,” I groaned.