I pulled into the storage facility with Maggie and Nevermore, along with one addition passenger.

Maggie sat in the passenger seat, the old German shepherd looking like a proper professional in her service vest. She watched the passing road and buildings with measured calm, her head swiveling slowly from side to side. Every now and then, she glanced up at me, as if checking in.

Nevermore perched on the headrest behind me, shifting between disdainful silence and muttered complaints. His feathers fluffed occasionally in irritation as he side-eyed Coy, whose boundless energy was proving to be an ongoing trial for the raven.

Coy, of course, was in the backseat, bouncing from one side of the car to the other. He’d rolled down the window himself, tongue lolling as he leaned into the wind. Every time we came to a stop, he’d hop out to investigate something that caught his eye—or nose.

The first half-dozen times he pulled this stunt, I panicked, slamming the brakes and scrambling out to track him down. But the second I got out, there he was—already back in the car, looking at me like I was the one being ridiculous. Eventually, I learned to just keep driving and let him come back on his own.

Moving or not, Coy's ability to return to the return the car did, if fact, bordered on the supernatural. He could be, quite literally, wherever he wanted to be.

Needless to say, I hadn’t planned on bringing him.

Before leaving, I’d gone through the trouble of laying down ground rules for the dogs while I was out. Coy—especially Coy—had received a detailed rundown of expectations.

Which he promptly ignored.

My backseat was empty when I reversed out of the driveway. Then, as soon as I shifted into drive, there was a faint pop—and suddenly, there he was. Sitting nonchalantly, as if he’d been there the entire time.

Yesterday, this would’ve sent me spiraling. Today, I just sighed.

I had read more of Sandy’s book, and now things made a little more sense. Coy, like Monty, Camellia, and so many of the other familiars, had his own magical... quirk. Which was to say, he wasn’t bound by normal rules—be they the laws of society or physics.

If Coy wanted to come along, he was coming. And there was naught I could do about it.

So instead of fighting the inevitable, I went back inside, grabbed an extra service dog vest, and told him he’d have to wear it if he wanted to join us. Out of spite, I slapped an In Training patch—which I took for one of the smaller vests—and stuck it beneath the embroidered Service Dog emblem. But, nonetheless, Coy wore it with the same smug satisfaction.

He had won, and he knew it.

Our first stop was my storage unit. The facility’s narrow corridors of outdoor units stretched ahead as I navigated to the farthest edge of the lot, parking near the northern fence.

Rolling down the windows, I killed the engine, letting the oppressive July heat sweep in like a smothering blanket. I'd bit hoping for a breeze, but no dice.

“Alright,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt and pushing the door open. “Here’s the plan. I need to grab some clothes and emergency cash from my unit. Meanwhile, we’ll check the tracks for Boden’s scent. The CSX line runs right behind the truck service station next door, so we can kill two birds with one stone.”

As fortune would have it, the storage facility where I’d rented a unit was serendipitously positioned. The CSX line, after crossing the Ashley River at the drawbridge I’d come across yesterday, cut a straight path through North Charleston, passing within a stone’s throw of my unit.

Nevermore ruffled his feathers and hopped closer to the open window. “And whom would you have this bird stone?”

I pointed to the chain-link fence, beyond which ran the Mark Clark Expressway. “You and Coy are my trespassing team. I can’t afford another charge on my record, so it’s up to you two. Follow the road to the right—it’ll lead you straight to the tracks, about a hundred yards north. Have Coy start there and work your way back down towards the Ashley River until he picks up Boden’s scent.”

Nevermore’s tone dripped with melodramatic skepticism. “Let me ensure I understand. You expect me to monitor this mutt as we wander like vagabonds along the rails, while you root around your storage unit?”

“Pretty much,” I said. “Just make sure Coy doesn’t get too distracted or make trouble.”

Coy pushed the back door open with his nose and hopped out. The second his paws hit the sunbaked asphalt, he yelped and bolted back into the car, tail tucked tight.

“Might want to avoid the pavement,” I said, biting back a smirk. “It’s a little warm out.”

“Hardly too tall an order,” Nevermore said with exaggerated dignity. “Still, if you’re delegating pet-sitting duty to me, I’ll require a cut of your payment.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What would you even do with money?”

“Buy shiny things,” he replied without hesitation.

I rolled my eyes. “Sure. Fine. You’ve got a deal.”

Nevermore preened. “Excellent. Mr. Coy, shall we—oh. Well, there he goes.”

There was a faint pop. When I turned, Coy was gone, as if he’d never been there at all.

Nevermore tilted his head, bemusement almost palpable. “Shall I follow him?”

I sighed. I suppose my hopes had been too high that Coy would cooperate. “No. Let him do his thing. Can’t have both of you getting lost.”

Sliding back into the driver’s seat, I shut the door and leaned against the headrest. Nevermore fluttered to perch behind Maggie, his feathers ruffling as a breeze blew through the open window.

"How do you suppose he does that?” Nevermore asked.

“I have no idea,” I muttered, restarting the engine. “All I know is he can only do it when no one’s looking—like some kind of Schrödinger’s dog.”

“Did Sandy’s book offer any illumination on the matter?”

“Depends,” I said. “Does ‘wanders in the relics’ mean anything to you?”

Nevermore tilted his head. “Under what context?”

“Umm,” I tried to recall the exact wording. “Sandy wrote something about Coy in what I think was Latin. Or maybe it’s just how her Arcanum looks to me. Either way, it said Errat in Relicta. Wanders in the Relics.”

Nevermore straightened, his posture shifting. A glimmer of recognition sparked in his eyes. “Ah, I see. You mistranslated—or rather, it doesn’t translate neatly. The phrase means ‘Wanders in Abandon.’”

“Don’t you mean with abandon?”

“No,” Nevermore said, his tone betraying a faint note of satisfaction. “‘In Abandon.’ It’s not a state of mind; it’s a place.” He paused thoughtfully. “Though, I suppose one could argue it’s also a state of mind. Philosophically speaking, of course.”

I frowned, adjusting my grip on the steering wheel as I navigated a tight corner between the rows of storage units. “And where exactly is this... Abandon?”

Nevermore ruffled his feathers, settling himself like a professor preparing for a lecture. “Not one place, precisely. Abandon is a catch-all term for many similar places. You’re likely familiar with the concept—it permeates mysticism, religion, and literature. The idea of an overlapping reality. Think of Lewis’s Narnia, Lovecraft’s Dreamlands, Alice and her Wonderland, Peter Pan and Neverland, or Riordan’s Olympus.” He paused. “Admittedly, Riordan’s mythos is just repackaged Greek mythology—but why reinvent the wheel?”

I raised an eyebrow. “So you’re saying the afterlife is a trope.”

“And one as old as time itself,” he replied airily. “These realms—collectively called Abandon, at least in some circles—are usually tied to physical geography, but not always. For our purposes, imagine the world as you know it—this material world, or Sonder, the term opposite to Abandon—as the surface of a frozen lake. Everything you know is on top of the ice. Not the ice itself, but the surface, the snow, and everything that walks atop it. That is Sonder. Beneath it lies the water—vast, dark, and deep. That’s Abandon. Not separate mind you—both ice and snow are made of water—but rather an extension of this world. And most incorporeal beings—ghosts, spirits, demons—are believed to dwell there.”

I mulled that over as I pulled up to my storage unit. “So... it’s like the Upside Down?”

Nevermore blinked. “The what?”

“From Stranger Things. It’s… uh… after your time.”

He made a small huffing noise. “Abandon is where Coy moves when he vanishes. He doesn’t teleport—he steps through the ice and resurfaces elsewhere. It’s efficient for short distances but not instantaneous—he still has to traverse the space. But because time and distance work differently there, it appears instantaneous to us.”

“Can he get lost?”

“I don’t imagine he needs to go very deep. Think of him scooting along the underside of the ice.”

“The Upside Down,” I said smugly.

Nevermore clicked his beak. “Hmm. You know, that is rather clever term. I may steal it.”

While I wouldn't say I understood all of what Nevermore was telling, the concept itself wasn't hard to grasp. I’d already accepted that magic existed, so why would the concept of a magic plane of reality be any harder to swallow?

I mean, I was talking to a bird, and I had a tail. My sense of disbelief wasn’t so much suspended as expelled.

“Is staying there dangerous?” I asked.

“For extended periods, yes. Abandon isn’t stable like the material world. It churns and shifts, like the sea. And like the sea, its depths hold things best left undisturbed.”

“Like what?”

“Ever read Lovecraft?”

I snickered. “So, you’re saying I could go ice-fishing for Cthulhu?”

“I imagine many have tried.”

“What? Why?”

“Again, have you read Lovecraft?” Nevermore’s tone turned pointed. “Fanciful though his works were, and a bit of a prick he was, that man was meticulous in his research into the occult.”

“Oh, and what about Poe?” I prodded playfully.

Nevermore stiffened. “I’d rather not talk about Poe.”

I pulled up to my storage unit, killing the engine and stepping out into the oppressive July heat. The sun baked the asphalt, and the humidity clung to me like a second skin.

Leaning across the front seat, I popped open the glove box to fish out my keys. Maggie shifted to make room, then took the opportunity to sniff inside before landing a quick, opportunistic lick on my ear. A professional or not, Maggie was still a licker.

“Ugh—Maggie!” I wiped at the wet spot, but she looked entirely unrepentant.

Shaking my head, I stepped around the car to unlock the storage unit. The roll-up door groaned in protest as I lifted it. I knew to be careful—last time I was here, I’d stacked the boxes in a rush, leaving them precariously balanced.

Sure enough, as I eased the door open, I felt the weight of the nearest stack pressing against it. Their balance had shifted. Carefully, I braced the leaning pile with one hand, cracking the door just wide enough to keep it from toppling.

One box, sitting just out of reach at the top, had other ideas.

It tumbled to the ground, splitting open on impact.

Scattered across the pavement were picture frames I’d once hung on the walls of my apartment—a family photo, one of me and my brother Michael as kids, another of me carrying my half-sister Chelley on my shoulders when I was fifteen and she was two. My college diploma in another.

I exhaled through my nose. At least the frames were cheap plastic, so they hadn’t shattered.

After making sure the rest of the stack was stable, I knelt to start gathering the pictures: snapshots of my life.

Nevermore swooped onto the edge of a nearby box, his black eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, a metaphor made manifest.”

“Don’t start,” I warned, shoving the frames back into their box.

“There once was a lass who made messes,

Her failures she rarely confesses.

But when towers collapse,

And she’s found in a lapse,

She claims she’s just under some stresses.”

I leveled a glare at him. “Nevermore, I will stuff you in a box.”

“My artistry is wasted on you,” he lamented, clicking his beak in mock dismay before hopping just out of reach.

I ignored him and picked up another frame. This one was from my stepsister’s wedding. The whole family was there—Dad’s side, Katherine’s side. Everyone.

Except me.

I hadn’t been around that day. I'd been missing, lost somewhere in the woods during my three blackout days in March. I hadn’t talked much to Sarah or my stepmother since then, and we weren’t exactly on good terms.

But what could I tell them, that I'd missed by sister's wedding because I was too busy becoming a werewolf?

Katherine would probably accuse me of just making more excuses.

I got to work, carefully unloading the boxes one by one to avoid another avalanche. Eventually, I found the one I was looking for: my day-to-day clothes.

The box was heavier than I remembered, but I managed to lug it to the car, sliding it into the trunk beside the two booted tires that had been living there since my last run-in with the repo agency Dixie Nissan had contracted. I made a mental note to ditch them at my next possible convenience—and, if I could scrape together the funds, finally get a replacement tire from LKQ.

Returning to the unit, I spotted another familiar box—one containing my office supplies. My slim black briefcase with the Muckenfuss logo embroidered on the front was wedged between legal stationery and a few books. Inside, nestled among stray pens and old receipts, was a black leather hand wallet where I kept my emergency stash of tip money. Mostly singles and fives from shifts at the Moxy, though several crumpled tens and twenties were mixed in—remnants of the soul-crushing nights I’d spent working at Club Cheetah and King Street Cabernet at V’s behest.

I counted the bills. Two hundred and twelve dollars. A small fortune, given my circumstances—but also everything I had until my next paycheck.

I reached for my purse to stash the wallet, wanting to keep it close.

“Did your purse just move?” Nevermore asked, his voice edged with curiosity.

In hindsight, I should have paid more attention to that. But in the moment, I dismissed it, assuming it was just my gun shifting its weight—I wasn’t about to leave it alone in a house with an unsupervised Carl, after all.

But I'd left it unattended while I went to feed the menagerie. I while I was worried about something begin taken from the bag, something might have climbed in.

Something with eight legs.

I opened the purse, intending to drop the wallet inside—only for a massive, red-fringed ornamental tarantula to scuttle up my arm.

Elmo.

A tangled mess of instincts fired at once.

My brain knew it was Elmo. Knew he was harmless, that he belonged to Sandy, that I’d seen him before.

My body, however, did not care.

A shriek tore out of me as I flung my purse across the unit, sending its contents flying. My feet scrambled backward—too forcefully—right into the stacked boxes behind me.

Which immediately collapsed.

The entire mess came crashing down, boxes splitting open, their contents spilling across the pavement for all the world to see.

Which, really, only meant Maggie and Nevermore.

Nevermore let out a low whistle, then alighted on the nearest box—one filled with most of the clothing from the last—and, well, only—romantic relationship I’d ever been in.

He eyed the lingerie, his head tilting ever so slightly. “You know, I never would have thought pink to be your color. Especially a shade so… vibrant.”

“Shut up. Shut up.” I growled, still trembling from the heart attack Elmo had damn near given me—Elmo, who now perched himself atop my head, perfectly at ease.

I wasn’t at ease thought. Instead, I was brimming with a pure, and unadulterated rage.

But it wasn’t because of Elmo. Nor was it the boxes. In fact, I couldn’t say I was mad at any one particular thing.

I was mad at all things.

In fact, I’d probably been mad at everything for a while now. But I’d kept it under wraps—right up until the moment the damn boxes finally broke this wolf’s back.

I needed to hit something. Not a person, not an animal—but something. My desk, preferably. I wanted to lock myself in my room, beat my fists against the wood hard enough make the room shake, and let loose a string of blasphemies creative enough to make a televangelist weep. Then, when I was good and spent, I’d call V, to vent until my throat was raw, and then ask if she wanted to go out for tequila shots.

One night of getting sloshed, a morning spent recovering from the hangover, and I’d be right as rain.

Except, I couldn’t risk going out drinking with the moon this full. That was just begging to end up on the front page. Drunk Werewolf in Charleston: The Long-Awaited Sequel.

But once I got home? I was cracking open a White Claw. Consequences be damned.

Surveying the mess, I let out a long, exasperated growl. “Great. Just great.”

Nevermore hopped closer, tilting his head as if savoring the moment. “Perhaps I could liven things up with a bit of poetry.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Not a spider’s so itsy-bitsy…”

“Nevermore,” I warned.

“For a lady oh so ditsy—”

I lunged. Nevermore squawked as I caught him mid-recital and, without hesitation, shoved him into my car’s glove box.

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

I parked on the shoulder of Charlene Drive and got out, holding Maggie’s leash to sell the illusion that we were just out for a casual walk.

Once again, the July heat hit like a wall—thick, humid, and suffocating. The transition from my air-conditioned car made it feel even worse, like stepping into a sauna fully clothed. Maggie stepped onto the grassy shoulder, instinctively keeping her paws off the blistering asphalt. She panted, tongue lolling as her head swiveled, taking in the surroundings.

Ahead, the chain-link fence of the Veneer Avenue Depot stretched across the landscape. Right beside it, Brentwood Middle School ran the length of the depot, separated by a thin corridor of trees. On the other side lay a stretch of track that linked back to the CSX line. Towering piles of gravel, sand, and various rock products loomed in uneven stacks, waiting to be hauled off for construction.

Concrete, dirt, and steel—these were the ingredients chosen to create our perfect modern infrastructure. But the government accidentally added an extra ingredient to the concoction: car lobbyists..

Thus, the U.S. transportation system was born.

Trains rumbled off in the distance, accompanied by the faint echoes of machinery. A sign that something, at least, was still moving. But the depot itself looked deserted.

Sunday staffed.

Coy had taken nearly half an hour to reappear after his jaunt into Abandon at the storage facility, giving me time to reorganize my boxes—and my thoughts. When he finally returned, he reported finding Boden’s scent, tracking it back here. A sort of pit stop before heading deeper into town. But before I could press for details or clarification, he bamfed off again, leaving me with an irritatingly long list of questions.

Waiting in the car wouldn’t have been a bad choice, given the heat, but I was too anxious to sit still. I needed to do something, and Coy’s report had too many gaps—peculiarities he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, explain.

So, I decided to do some sleuthing myself.

Maggie and I skirted the fence line, weaving through the narrow strip of trees bordering the depot and the middle school. Overhead, Nevermore circled before settling on a branch just ahead, keeping an eye out for workers or wandering eyes.

After spending some time confined to the glove box, he had emerged in lighter spirits, having used his solitude to perfect a bizarre crossover of London Bridge and Little Miss Muffet, sung to the tune of The Itsy-Bitsy Spider. Try as I might to resist, it had made me smile.

“No one in sight,” he reported, ruffling his feathers. “We are in the clear.”

I nodded, guiding Maggie along with a gentle tug of her leash. Shifting my bag on my shoulder, I felt the weight inside shift.

I’d left my hand wallet in the glove box—after freeing Nevermore, of course—and had instead made room for Elmo. I couldn’t leave him in the car, not unless I wanted to slow-roast the tarantula. I wasn’t sure how comfortable he was, since my ability to talk to animals seemed less effective with arthropods, but he seemed unbothered. Maybe even enjoying himself. As if he knew he was on an adventure.

Regardless, as long as he stayed in the bag, I was happy.

Halfway down the fence, just past the middle school’s baseball field, Maggie stopped. Her nose twitched, ears swiveling, before she tugged me toward a cluster of foliage along the fence line.

I crouched beside her, breathing in slowly through me nose.

At first, Boden’s scent was faint—just another thread in the tangled weave of dirt, foliage, exhaust, and asphalt. But once I caught it, I could follow it, tease it apart from the rest.

Maggie moved with purpose, her head low, nose sifting through the layers of scent clinging to the air. She led me to a patch of scuffed-up ground near a cluster of marked trees, where Boden had lingered. His trail wove through crushed vegetation, tire tracks, and footprints.

Boden hadn’t been alone.

I inhaled deeply, sorting through the mess of overlapping scents.

One stood out: sharp, artificial—cologne. Ralph Lauren, if I had to guess, though it did little to mask the sour tang beneath it. Sweat. Unwashed skin. Whoever he was, and I knew from the scent that it was a he, he hadn’t showered in days.

His scent pooled strongest near the tire tracks, where the ground bore the subtle imprint of weight and stillness. If I had to guess, he’d taken the utility road that cut between the school campus and the baseball field to park here—out of sight, tucked into the woods.

Maggie let out a soft huff, confirming my thoughts. I scratched behind her ear absently. Like me, something about this made her uneasy.

Crouching, I gestured toward the disturbed ground. “Can you tell if he was parked here long?”

Maggie’s nose twitched as she inspected the air where I suspected the car’s muffler had been. The lingering scent of exhaust was obvious, but by itself, it didn’t tell me much.

She, however, could tell a lot more.

The information she relayed back to me was clearer than I expected. Maggie wasn’t just good at this—she was better than me. From scent alone, she could determine not just how long ago the car had been here but how long it had idled before leaving. Hell, even Coy hadn’t picked up this much.

This old girl was wise indeed.

From her insight, I could place the man here about an hour before midnight, matching the time that both she and Coy had estimated for Boden’s arrival.

Which begged the question: what was he doing here?

“Alright, Maggie, let’s see where this takes us.”

She led me along the fence line, nose to the ground, pace steady but focused. The scent veered toward a section of chain-link where the metal had been cut and pulled back.

I frowned, brushing my fingers along the frayed edges. “Cut with pliers it looks like. Someone made an entrance.”

Nevermore swooped low, landing on the fence. “Well, this is troubling.”

I peered through the gap, scanning the depot beyond. “Nevermore, watch my back,” I muttered before slipping through, Maggie at my side.

“Are you sure that’s a—oh, well, never mind,” Nevermore sighed as he flapped after Maggie and me.

Inside, the depot was eerily still. No workers in sight, but the distant hum of machinery told me I wasn’t alone alone. I stayed low, Maggie and I following the man’s scent as it wove through the site, past office buildings and between stacks of shipping containers.

Our cologned man hadn’t been wandering aimlessly. His movements were methodical, stopping at each container as if searching through them.

What were you looking for?

After I was satisfied with our findings, we slipped back through the hole in the fence, hurrying to reconvene with Nevermore.

“He was looking for something—the man, I mean,” I said, rubbing my chin. “Or scouting for a job.”

“Like a heist?” Nevermore offered. “Who’d want to steal a bunch of dirt?”

“He might have been after equipment or vehicles,” I mused. “They can be worth a small fortune. But according to Maggie, he spent most of his time around the shipping crates, not the machinery.”

Nevermore cocked his head. “And Boden? Was he dogging the man’s footsteps?”

I hesitated. “It seems like it. He was with the guy the entire time.”

Nevermore ruffled his feathers. “Is this odd behavior for our lost dog?”

“Not if food was involved,” I muttered, standing and dusting off my clothes. “Found a cheeseburger wrapper in a waste bin outside the offices. It smelled of the man's cologne and looked like it had been chewed up by a dog. Either our man fed it to Boden, or—more likely—Boden assumed it was for him and took it. Either way, Boden’s stomach is the way to his heart.”

Nevermore made a dry clicking sound. “Charming.”

“At some point, the guy left,” I added, “and Boden wandered deeper into the city.”

“So, we now wait for Mr. Coy to return.”

“Hopefully, he’ll be more detailed this time,” I muttered.

Nevermore and I made our way back to the car. Stepping out into the open, the sun bore down like a weighted blanket. No wind, no breeze—just heat pressing in from all sides. My mind churned through the details of what we’d found, but the more I thought about it, the more pointless it felt.

“Are you thinking about reporting this?” Nevermore asked, fluttering beside me, landing on my shoulder.

“To who?” I scoffed. “The cops? Yeah, I’ll just waltz into the precinct and tell them I followed my nose to—what, exactly? A future crime scene?”

“You could omit the nose part,” he suggested dryly.

“And then what? Tell them my psychic powers and service dogs led me to an unsubstantiated lead on a man who might have been scouting a gravel yard for… who knows what?” I shook my head. “No. Even if they did listen, it wouldn’t go anywhere. Everything I know, I know because of Maggie, Coy, or my own senses—which means none of it holds up in court. No fingerprints. No security footage. No paper trail. Just a lingering scent and a hunch. Oh, and some footprints, but those still don't prove anything.”

Nevermore tilted his head. “So is that not what’s bothering you?”

I sighed. “A lot of things are bothering me, Nevermore. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Well, something seems to be bothering you. I mean, you’re hyperventilating.”

I stopped mid-step. “What?”

“You’ve been puffing like a bellows since we left,” he said, eyeing me closely. “I'm worried you're about to keel over.”

“Oh,” I muttered. “Yeah, that’s—look, it’s just a werewolf thing.” I pulled back my cheek with a finger, flashing my canines. “See? Sill got my teef.”

Nevermore recoiled slightly. “Well, that’s lovely.”

“Anyway,” I said, letting go of my lip, “I could transform myself all the way back to human, so the changes are only skin deep. Hell, I still have most of my fur—it’s just hidden under my clothes.”

Nevermore considered this. “So… you’re a wolf in street clothes. And, what, you’re panting?”

"Well, canines don’t have sweat glands like humans do. We have to pant to cool down.”

“But don’t dogs sweat through their paws?” Nevermore asked.

I hesitated, glancing down at my shoes before wiggling my toes experimentally. The sensation hit immediately. Damp, sticky fabric.

I groaned. “Ah. Great.”

“What?”

“My socks are wet.”

Nevermore blinked. “And?”

“And now I know my socks are wet,” I said through gritted teeth. “And I can’t un-know that.”

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The rest of the walk back to the car was spent in a slow-building, deeply personal hell. Wet feet. Soggy, sticky feet. There was no worse sensation—aside from, perhaps, getting shot in the ass by a monkey. The way the damp fabric clung, sucking and pulling with every step, like I was perpetually peeling off slimy, half-used duct-tape. It was unbearable. Disgusting. Like walking through life in a perpetual, clammy handshake. I hated it. Hated it more than I could rationally explain.

By the time I reached the car, I was barely containing the full-body cringe threatening to take over. Before sliding into the driver’s seat, I sat with my feet still outside, yanked off my sneakers, and peeled the offending fabric from my feet, shuddering at the sensation. Cranking the AC at full blast, I shoved my feet toward the vents, desperate to erase the lingering moisture before it soaked into my very soul.

Nevermore, perched on the steering wheel, let out an affronted squawk. “You’re fouling up the car.”

"Don’t give me that. Birds can’t smell,” I shot back, wiggling my toes as the blessedly cool air hit them.

“Like hell we can’t.”

I arched a brow. “Don’t ravens eat carrion? Shouldn’t you like the smell of dead fish and roadkill?”

Nevermore scoffed. “Why in the world would I find your socks appetizing? Your feet smell worse than wet dog.”

"Hey!"

My purse squirmed. Sighing, I unzipped it, letting Elmo scuttle free. He climbed onto the passenger seat’s headrest, took a moment to get his bearings, then cautiously approached my sneakers in the seat below him. After a brief investigation, the large ornamental tarantula immediately scuttled away.

"See?" Nevermore declared triumphantly. "They even repel spiders."

“No, he doesn’t like them because he can’t fit inside them. He’s too big.” I turned to Maggie. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Maggie—who had climbed into the passenger seat, and now sporting Elmo atop her head—nudged my shoe onto the floor. She made a noise halfway between a huff and a sneeze.

“Thanks for the support,” I muttered.

I could sense Nevermore gearing up to say something colorful, a poetic jab about my feet, but before he could immortalize them in verse, there was a faint pop from the backseat.

Coy reappeared, tail thumping lazily against the seat.

"And where have you been?" I asked.

Coy just grinned.

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

The Meeting Street rail depot sat wedged between sprawling industrial lots and cramped suburban streets, a liminal space where commerce met concrete. The drive over had been smooth—eerily so. It was a Sunday, sure, but with the Fourth of July approaching, Charleston had emptied more than usual. Anyone with sense and the means to do so had fled to the beaches, leaving the sweltering city to those who couldn’t afford to escape or simply had nowhere else to be.

This wasn’t the Charleston of glossy travel brochures or pastel-colored postcards. This was the real Charleston—or at least, the vast majority of it by square mile. The peninsula’s historic charm was just a facade. Beyond the curated cobblestone streets, the city stretched outward, fueled by its growing medical district, tourism, and trade. Roads, rails, warehouses, and depots tangled with tightly packed residential neighborhoods, forming the true, unpolished sprawl.

It was the kind of place where no one would blink at a woman walking her dog along a tree-lined industrial park. Though, I’d likely turn heads wearing what appeared to be a fur-lined jacket in the middle of July.

I parked at the corner of Hedgewood, beside an empty lot overgrown with weeds and littered with sun-bleached trash. Hooking Maggie to her leash, I corralled Elmo back into my bag just as a faint pop announced Coy’s arrival. He trotted up from the other side of the car, a leash dangling from his mouth.

Where he’d found the damn thing, I had no idea.

“Seriously?” I eyed him, unimpressed. “You’ve been roaming free all day. Does that not count as a walk?”

Coy wagged his tail, eyes bright with manufactured innocence, his whole demeanor light and carefree. But I wasn’t fooled. I’d seen enough to know better. Beneath his ridiculous, happy-go-lucky facade lurked something smug, something scheming. Coy played dumb with the precision of a con artist, and the worst part was, I couldn't help falling for it.

I was a sucker for a cute face.

Sighing, I took the leash from his mouth, clipping it to his collar, and then looped it over my wrist.

This stretch of Meeting Street had no sidewalks, just narrow grassy shoulders broken by cracked asphalt driveways. Across the road, an tree-lined embankment shielded the depot behind a towering privacy fence. I checked for traffic and started across with Maggie and Coy in tow—just in time to dodge a delivery truck barreling through the intersection like it had somewhere far more important to be than I did.

I let Coy take the lead, expecting him to guide us straight to the spot he’d flagged earlier. But after five minutes of weaving through patches of dry grass and uneven terrain, we were no closer to our destination.

I frowned. Perhap I’d parked farther away than I thought?

But something felt off. Coy’s focus wasn’t on tracking. His tail swayed with a little too much enthusiasm, his ears flicking as he took in the breeze, the distant symphony of noises, the myriad of enticing scents carried on the wind. This wasn’t the single-minded determination of a search—this was the simple, boundless joy of a dog on a walk.

“Coy,” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. “We’re not here for sightseeing.”

Coy’s nose was buried in a tuft of grass, utterly ignoring me.

I turned to Maggie, who at least had the decency to acknowledge my existence.

“Are we even going the right way?”

Maggie flicked an ear, her posture stiff with exasperation. No.

I sighed. “Unbelievable.”

Maggie let out a small huff, and I got the distinct impression she was just as annoyed with Coy as I was. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to take advantage of the situation. A walk was a walk.

Coy lifted his leg against a bush with exaggerated nonchalance. Immediately, Maggie began sniffing around for a spot of her own.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Maggie glanced up at me as if to say: If he gets a bathroom break, so do I.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, inhaling deeply before exhaling even slower. “Fine. Five more minutes. Then we get back to work.”

They took their time, sniffing, circling, and meticulously selecting their designated targets. I stood there in the oppressive heat, panting like an idiot, feeling less like a serious investigator and more like a begrudging chaperone.

Then again, I didn’t have to pretend to be walking dogs anymore.

When they finally finished their little detour, Coy trotted back toward the road, his leash dragging lazily in the grass. Maggie fell into step beside me, and we trudged after him.

Five more minutes of walking, and we arrived back at my parked car—then continued past it.

Coy had led us in the complete opposite direction.

I shot him a look, but didn’t argue. He led us into the tree line, weaving through the underbrush until we reached the privacy fence running along the depot’s perimeter. Nestled at the base, partially hidden by scraggly bushes and loose dirt, was a hole.

A very large hole.

Even without my heightened senses, it was obvious. The paw prints in the soil. The dark tufts of fur snagged on the jagged chain-link. The sheer size of it.

This was Boden’s handiwork.

Nevermore flapped down, perching atop one of the fence posts where the rows of barbed wire were anchored. His feathers ruffled slightly as he scanned the depot’s perimeter.

“Well,” he murmured, “not much to see—shipping crates stacked two, sometimes three high. A service road along the perimeter and some tracks just beyond the fence. No security. No workers nearby. No sign of anything particularly interesting.”

I glanced at the opaque plastic sheeting running the length of the fence, blocking my view from this side. “Right. Thanks for the report.”

Nevermore clicked his beak, eyeing the hole. “Why dig under the fence here? Or at all, for that matter? Did our wayward friend perhaps smell something particularly delectable?”

I shook my head. “No. Boden wasn’t trying to get in. Dirts piled up on the other side. He was leaving.”

"Ah, of course."

I ran my fingers through the loose dirt. "If Coy’s right about where the trail leads, that means he must have entered from the other side—from the direction the Veneer Depot.”

Nevermore tilted his head. “So, do we know where he went after?”

“Coy says his trail follows Meeting Street, then merges onto Durant Avenue into Park Circle.”

“Coy can read street signs now?”

I rolled my eyes. “No. I just know those roads. Used to deliver DoorDash around Park Circle and the nearby neighborhoods.”

Nevermore’s feathers fluffed, his amusement mild but apparent. “How convenient.”

“It was a job,” I said flatly. “And yeah, that’s where we’re headed next, but first I want to see what Boden was up to in there.” I cracked my knuckles and crouched beside the opening. “Keep an eye out for me, would you?”

Without waiting for a reply, I dropped onto my hands and knees and wriggled through the gap. The dry dirt clung to my turtleneck and pants as I pulled myself through, emerging rather ungracefully on the other side. Coy was already there, sniffing around like I was the one taking too long. Maggie followed close behind, her nose twitching at the layers of scent hanging in the air.

The southern end of the storage depot stretched before us. Rows of empty shipping containers lay scattered across the gravel lot, their exteriors bleached and rust-streaked from years under the sun. Beyond them, a dense patch of undeveloped woods pressed against the perimeter, a utility road snaking through the trees.

Between the privacy fence and the lot, a pair of train tracks cut through the landscape—the same tracks Nevermore had mentioned. These tracks branched off from the main CSX line about half a mile north, then continued southward, converging with several other lines that carved their way down the spine of the Charleston peninsula before terminating at the ports along the Cooper River.

I bolted across the tracks, the dogs keeping pace, and slipped into the shade of the thicket of trees at the southern end of the depot. The air was thick with scent of vegetation, laced with the faint tang of diesel and iron. But beneath that, something else caught my attention.

A scent—familiar and distinct.

I slowed, inhaling carefully. Ralph Lauren cologne. The same one from before.

My stomach tightened. The man from the Veneer Depot had been here too.

And Boden had followed him.

Pushing through the underbrush, we emerged into a dilapidated parking lot, half-swallowed by nature. Cracks in the pavement had given way to weeds and goosegrass, slowly annexing the space back into the wild. The weathered benches and rusted lamp posts suggested it had once been a public space—probably a small park for the nearby subdivision before the CSX Intermodal, or maybe the Charleston Port Authority, expanded their footprint.

Now, it was little more than a leftover convenience, an informal parking lot for the employees.

“Maggie, Coy,” I gestured toward the rest of the depot, “see where Boden's trail leads.”

Maggie took off without hesitation, nose to the ground. Coy trotted after her at a leisurely pace, his entire demeanor suggesting he'd get to it when he got to it. I had a feeling they’d turn up more of the same—Boden tailing the cologned man, the man combing the depot.

Still, I wanted confirmation.

Left alone, I wandered toward the rusting waste bin near the lot’s edge. A discarded can sat at the top. I plucked it free, turning it over in my hands—a Java Monster energy drink—the Mean Bean flavor.

Lifting it to my nose, I sniffed.

Cologne.

Nevermore landed atop a bent lamppost, watching me with what could only be described as amusement. “Tell me, does this piece of trash inspire any great revelations?”

I exhaled through my nose, already irritated. “A guy who drinks this probably doesn’t make the best life decisions. That, or he’s pulling an all-nighter.”

“Perhaps both,” Nevermore mused.

Sighing, I sank onto a weathered bench and peeled off my socks. The sticky fabric resisted, clinging to my skin before finally peeling free. I tossed them to the far side of the bench alongside my shoes, then tucked my hands under my knees, swinging my feet slightly to air them out. It was impossible to think clearly when my feet felt like they were marinating in their own misery.

Opening my bag, I brought out Elmo and placed him on my head—preemptive damage control. I still wanted nothing to do with him, but if I had to spend the day with his company, I'd rather not spend it with my blood pressure through the roof.

Exposure therapy.

“So,” I muttered, glancing up at Nevermore, “I don’t think this guy’s a thief anymore.”

Nevermore tilted his head. “Oh? And what led you to this sudden realization?”

I gestured toward the trash can. “Boden ate that sandwich back at Veneer, yeah? But this guy didn’t just drop his trash on the ground. He carried it over to a waste bin and threw it away—same with this can. That’s… weirdly conscientious for someone cutting through fences.”

Nevermore ruffled his feathers. “Perhaps he fancies himself a gentleman criminal?”

“More like someone trying to keep a low profile,” I said, tossing the can back into the bin. “Maggie placed him here around two in the morning. He’s drinking a Monster, poking around in shipping containers—but doesn’t even bother with the equipment or vehicles.”

“Ah,” Nevermore said, intrigued. “A stakeout, then?”

“Either that or he was looking for something,” I replied, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Maggie traced his scent across most of the Veneer depot. I suspect we'll find the same here. I think he was looking for something stashed in one of the containers. Maybe a drop site. Could be drugs—or something else.”

Nevermore fluttered down to a lower branch, considering. “Could he be law enforcement? Trying to follow up on a tip? You know, like a drug bust.”

I snorted. “Hardly. He cut the fence back at Veneer. Doesn’t exactly scream badge material.”

“But it could suggest a private detective,” Nevermore countered. “It wouldn’t be unusual for one of them to operate in the gray areas of the law. That might explain his methods—questionable, but not outright malicious.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. “It would explain how he knew about this parking lot. It’s not visible from the road, and, unless you’ve been here before, you wouldn’t think to take the utility road to reach it. Someone had to tell him about this place.”

Nevermore nodded. “Which means he has an informant. And possibly a lead worth following.”

I scoffed. “As if.”

Nevermore fluffed his feathers. “Ah, but I like mysteries. Do you really want nothing to do with him?”

“Nope.” I shook my head. “Not my problem. I’m here for Boden, not to stick my hand into a possible wasp's nest.”

“That’s assuming Boden followed him just because the man fed him. And were he a regular dog, I’d be inclined to agree. But Boden’s not a regular dog, now is he?”

I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yeah… that part doesn’t sit right with me either. Too coincidental. But if Boden’s magic quirk is somehow involved, that’s all the more reason to stay out of our mystery man’s business."

I stretched my legs, brushing the dirt off my soles before sliding my socks back on with a grimace. Scooping up Elmo, I placed him back in my bag.

Nevermore eyed me for a long moment before hopping back onto the lamppost. “So what now?”

I laced up my shoes. “Coy said Boden’s trail continues up Durant, which means he was headed toward Park Circle. That’s where we’re going next.”

I waited for Maggie and Coy to return, idly bouncing my heels against the bench as my socks continued their slow, damp redemption in the warm air. When the dogs finally trotted back, Maggie confirmed what I already suspected—our cologned mystery man had searched through multiple containers before heading back to his car, with Boden in pursuit to parts unknown.

With that, we slipped back out through Boden's hole, and made our way to the car. I started the engine and pulled onto the road, heading toward Park Circle.

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

I pulled into the Park Circle Community Center lot, slipping into a tight space just as the previous occupant backed out. True to its name, Park Circle sat at the heart of a perfect wheel—an expansive green space ringed by a circular road of the same name, with streets radiating outward like the spokes of a giant dartboard. The surrounding suburb was neatly divided into eighths, each slice a quiet neighborhood branching from the center.

The park itself buzzed with life. Children’s laughter rang from the playground, mingling with the rhythmic creak of swings and the squeak of sneakers on the basketball court. The nearby dog park hummed with energy—a chorus of excited yips, play-growls, and the rustling of paws kicking up loose dirt.

Maggie wagged her tail eagerly as I clipped on her leash, her enthusiasm more pronounced than usual. A flicker of nostalgia hit me—this had been one of Sandy’s regular stops, a treat for the dogs when they’d been particularly well-behaved.

Coy, for once, chose to stay at my side instead of vanishing to parts unknown. Whether it was the familiar surroundings or the promise of fresh distractions, he seemed content to stick close. But maybe he just preferred company from time to time.

We made our way to a cluster of water fountains near the main path. The fixture had three spigots: one for adults, one for kids, and one at ankle height for dogs. I pressed the foot pedal, and Maggie ducked her head to drink, lapping at the cool stream. Coy followed suit, though with considerably less dignity, unaware that his head was directly in the stream.

I bent to take a drink myself, letting the cold water soothe the dry rasp in my throat. As I straightened, Nevermore fluttered down, landing gracefully on the edge of the fountain. His black eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Care if I join you?” he asked, tilting his head, then body, into the stream of water, as if it were a bird bath.

“What are you doing?” I hissed, glancing around.

“Relax.” He fluffed his feathers, shaking off droplets of water. “No one is close enough to hear us. Besides, you’re already drawing attention in your own way.”

I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been panting ever since you stepped out of the car,” he noted, entirely too pleased with himself. “Quite the sight, really.”

“It’s not as if I can stop,” I muttered. “I’d keel over from heat stroke if I did.”

Nevermore let out a soft chuckle. “Never imagined lycanthropy to have so many… peculiarities.”

I scowled. “Says the bird bathing in a water fountain.”

“Which,” he said, fluffing his wings and sending a fine mist of water onto the pavement, “is a perfectly normal behavior for a bird.”

I rolled my eyes and stepped away, heading toward the community center.

Nevermore shook out his wings before taking to the air, circling high before settling in a small tree near the building’s entrance. He took a deliberately roundabout route, aiming to appear unremarkable—just another bird finding a perch.

Except that this bird was a raven, which meant he did draw attention. A few onlookers paused to snap pictures of him, their focus fixed on the striking sight.

Meanwhile, I—a woman panting like a dog and wrapped in what appeared to be a fur coat—drew none at all.

As I approached the notice board outside the center, I scanned the pinned flyers, my eyes skimming over the usual jumble of community events, lost pets, and service ads. Pulling out my phone, I scanned the QR code leading to the center’s Facebook page. Might as well check if anyone had posted about Boden.

Nevermore’s voice drifted softly from the tree behind me. “Is it unusual to see so many missing dog flyers?”

I frowned, glancing around to make sure no one could hear us before replying. “Not really. It’s almost the Fourth of July—people are probably already lighting fireworks. Happens every year. Pets freak out and run off.”

“Mm.” Nevermore didn’t sound convinced. “And Boden?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

As the page loaded, I scrolled through the latest posts. More missing pets—mostly dogs. The sheer number made my stomach tighten.

I hesitated, then exhaled. “Okay, I’ll admit, it’s a little weird.”

“Only a little?”

“Yeah, but it’s not our problem,” I muttered, tucking my phone away. “Let’s go.”

We left the park, heading south in the direction Coy had last picked up Boden’s trail. I kept to the edge of the sidewalk, steering clear of joggers and other dog walkers. The less anyone noticed me, the better. Nevermore flew ahead, doubling back every so often, a dark silhouette against the bright afternoon sky.

For someone who used to be a person, he made a damn convincing bird. The way he banked smoothly on the wind, perched without hesitation, and preened with effortless ease—it all looked natural. Maybe it was. Maybe being stuck in that body for so long had chipped away at whoever he’d once been.

The thought was amusing at first. Until it wasn’t.

If that could happen to Nevermore, what did it mean for me?

I'd had to believe myself to be a wolf in human skin to prevent my body from trying transformation back into a normal human. A palliative trick to mitigate the fact that I didn't yet have the strength to properly transform without help.

Deep down, I knew who I was, that I was just pretending.

But sometimes I forgot.

Sometimes the sensation of fur beneath my clothes, the shape of my teeth, the steady rhythm of panting—it all felt natural.

Perfectly normal.

Would there come a day when I stopped thinking of myself as a person? When the instincts stopped feeling like intrusions and just became... me?

I glanced down at Maggie and Coy trotting ahead, their ears swiveling, noses sorting through the layered scents of the neighborhood. There tails wagged, and they, for all intents and purpose, seemed rather content with everything.

I suppose that if the day ever came where I stop being myself, I hopefully wouldn't be as stressed as I was now. Not a bad consultation prize when you thought about.

Maggie moved with steady precision, flicking her attention between me and the world around us, always working, always analyzing. Coy, by contrast, was determined to investigate everything—hydrants, mailboxes, fence posts, stray tufts of grass. If it was vertical and outside, he was interested.

“Really?” I muttered as he paused at yet another fire hydrant. “You’ve literally been through here before.”

Coy wagged his tail, completely ignoring me, his nose buried deep in the world of scent.

And, annoying as it was, I understood.

With Maggie’s guidance, I was learning to parse through odors in ways I never could before. A simple bench at the bus stop carried layers of history—distinct scents from the people who had passed through. I could distinguish joggers from pedestrians based on olfactory cues alone: their level of exertion, their relative age, the laundry detergent they used. I could even detect certain health conditions—diabetes, pregnancy, and whether they were an alcoholic.

I’d read that dogs could smell diseases like cancer, epilepsy, and hormonal imbalances, and I was beginning to see how.

The whole neighborhood was a shifting tapestry of information, constantly refreshing. For a dog, I imagined it was no different than scrolling through a social media feed—except instead of updates about politics and cat videos, it was a catalog of who had been here, where they had gone, and what they had been doing.

Coy, of course, treated it more like a dating app.

He wasn’t as blatant about it as Rudy, but I could tell where his interests lay.

Still, despite his leisurely pace, he led us true. His meandering had a purpose, and as we wound through Park Circle, Boden’s trail took shape.

Boden had avoided the main roads, keeping to the quieter backstreets. His path hugged Bexley Street, which ran parallel to the train tracks marking the neighborhood’s outer perimeter. From there, the tracks veered north toward the North Charleston Port Terminal, but Boden hadn’t followed them. Instead, he cut through an overgrown lot, staying on Bexley before slipping through Triangle Park’s narrow streets along Oakwood Avenue, finally emerging onto Virginia Avenue.

Oakwood Avenue was our last stretch of normalcy—modest bungalows, overgrown lawns, quiet houses. But Virginia Avenue was different. The sleepy residential road gave way to a cracked four-lane highway, its median a battered strip of concrete.

Beyond it loomed the industrial sprawl—the Buckeye Port Terminal and the Amalie Oil refineries, skeletal structures stretching toward the sky, belching white plumes of steam into the heavy air.

I stopped at the curb, eyeing the expanse beyond.

Boden’s trail wove between warehouses and supply yards, slipping past fenced-in lots. Fortunately, it didn’t lead into the refineries themselves—security there would’ve been far worse than anything we’d encountered at a storage depot. If it had, I’d have had to rely entirely on Nevermore to scout ahead.

Not that I didn’t trust him.

I just didn’t trust his nose.

Instead, Boden’s scent guided us north along Virginia Avenue, cutting through the Charleston Metro Chamber of Commerce parking lot.

The lot was massive, easily the size of two football fields, with faded white lines marking row after row of empty spaces. The asphalt shimmered under the oppressive July sun, a heat mirage making the few scattered cars seem like they were floating.

I made a mental note—if our search dragged us any farther from Park Circle, I could move my car here. But first, I needed to see where this led.

Boden’s trail skirted the edge of the lot, leading to the farthest corner, where a thicket of trees bordered yet another set of train tracks. Beyond them, I could just make out the outline of another storage depot—small, but nearly identical to the ones we’d searched before.

My stomach twisted with irritation.

The scent hit me before I reached the trees—cologne, faint but distinct, clinging to the foliage like a signature.

Boden had been following this guy, all right. And from the familiar traces of exhaust, this was likely where the man had parked. I couldn’t pinpoint the make or model, but I had a hunch—four-cylinder engine, cheap gas. Probably some kind of sedan.

“Of course you were here,” I muttered, crouching to inspect the ground. “Dragging Boden all over town. And now me.”

Maggie joined me, her nose pressed to the dirt, sifting through the layers of scent. Coy, meanwhile, flopped into the nearest patch of shade, panting contentedly like he’d done the hard part. Maggie join him not long after.

I decided it was best to join them as well, the three of us panting under the meager cover of the trees. The heat was unbearable, and with so much of my pelt tuck under my clothes, I felt like I was wearing a portable oven. In hindsight, I should have brought a water bottle, but I hadn’t expected Boden’s trail to take me this far. Another reason to be annoyed at this cologned mystery man.

Nevermore perched silently on the fence, scanning the depot beyond. “Hmm. I don’t think this place is in operation today. The front gates are locked, and I can’t see anyone inside. I think we’re good to go.”

I pushed myself up, brushing the dirt from my hands. “Alright,” I muttered once I felt somewhat cooler. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

The depot stretched before us—rows of refrigerated containers lined up in tight formation like oversized dominoes. The air carried the usual cocktail of industrial smells—oil, asphalt, exhaust—but something else lingered beneath it. Faint. Acrid.

Metallic.

My shoulders tensed. The scent gnawed at the back of my mind, something familiar yet unwelcome. My body recognized it before my brain did, a subconscious warning crawling up my spine.

The perimeter fence was in bad shape—sagging, rusted, with gaps big enough for even a human to slip through. I crouched low, guiding Maggie and Coy through first before slipping in after them.

The scent only grew stronger inside.

Among the usual stench of diesel and asphalt, there was blood.

And a lot of it.

I froze, my stomach tightening.

“Coy, stop,” I ordered.

He halted mid-step, ears pricking as he looked back at me. Maggie pressed close to my side, her body tense, nose twitching furiously.

Nevermore fluttered down to the fence beside me, his dark eyes sharp. “What is it?”

“I smell blood. Something was wounded here,” I said, my voice low. “Maybe dead.”

Nevermore’s feathers ruffled. “Can you tell what kind of blood?”

I shot him a look. “I’m a werewolf, not a wereshark.”

Coy sniffed ahead, his posture shifting from curiosity to caution. Maggie followed, lowering her head to inspect the pavement. I crouched beside her, my fingers brushing over a dark stain near the base of a container. It wasn’t fresh, but it wasn’t old either.

And there was the smell of gunpowder.

Maggie and I both recognized the scent for what it was. The sharp, sulfuric tang clung to the air, mixing with the metallic bite of blood. I straightened, my gaze tracking up the side of the container. There—faint but unmistakable—a spray pattern speckled the metal like a grotesque constellation.

Someone, or something, had been shot.

The lingering sulfur stench suggested black powder—likely from a short-barreled firearm. A handgun. Maybe a revolver. No bullet holes to estimate the caliber, though. Either it was small enough not to punch through, or larger but hit center mass.

Either way, our marksman hadn’t missed, so far as I could tell.

Coy let out a quiet huff and padded forward, nose to the ground. Maggie hesitated before following. A faint, rotten edge tinged the air—the unmistakable scent of decay.

I swallowed hard. The blood trail wasn’t singular. There were multiple.

I quickened my pace.

Please don’t be Boden.

Coy led us toward a small grove of trees at the edge of the lot. Nevermore was already there, perched on the fence, his sharp gaze fixed on the branches above.

“What did you find?” I asked.

“I’m not certain,” he said. “But something dead is definitely here.

I frowned. “You didn’t investigate?”

Nevermore tilted his head, directing my attention toward the trees. A murder of crows had gathered in the branches, shifting restlessly, their sleek black forms rustling against the canopy.

I raised a brow. “So? Can’t you talk to them?”

Nevermore scoffed. “Do you know nothing of corvid behavior? Crows are absolute bastards to other birds—especially ravens.”

I smirked. “Are the mean old crows bullying you?”

He fluffed his feathers in indignation. “They dive-bomb me, pull out my feather, and ruthlessly harass me.” He flicked a wing toward the chattering canopy. “See? Still they mock me.”

He wasn’t wrong. The air was alive with jeering caws and sharp, scolding cries.

"Don't you shame my mother!" Nevermore roared back at them.

I crossed my arms. “I could scare them off for you.”

Nevermore clicked his beak dryly. “It’s your funeral. Those little assholes know how to hold a grudge.”

I stepped forward, and the crows stilled, watching. They flapped to higher branches but didn’t leave, eager to keep nearby.

It wasn't difficult to figure out why.

Under the shade of the trees lay the bodies of a dog, its fur matted with blood. Another lay beside it, just as still.

I crouched beside the first, brushing my fingers over its collar. A name tag gleamed in the dappled light.

“Daisy,” I murmured, the name tugging at something in my mind.

“She was missing,” Nevermore said, landing on my shoulder. He glanced up at the crows above us, watching warily. “There was a notice for her on the board back in the park.”

I reached for the second collar. “And this one… Matty. He was on that board too.”

Nevermore clicked his beak, his usual sardonic air replaced with something heavier. “What happened here?”

Maggie sniffed around the bodies, her nose leading her away from the depot. Coy followed, careful and subdued.

I exhaled sharply. “No,” I said, standing. “Come back. We don't need to go further.”

I already knew what they’d find if they kept going.

I could smell more bodies deeper in the woods.

And I didn't need anything else to turn my stomach. I was sure by the end of my pet-sitting gig, I'd have an ulcer.

But, to my relief, none of them smelt like Boden.

I crouched lower, inspecting the wounds.

“Gunshot,” I muttered. “Flank on this one, chest on the other. And…” I trailed my fingers over ragged marks. “Bite wounds.”

Nevermore’s feathers ruffled in the breeze. “You think Boden did that?”

I shook my head. "No, too small. Besides, Boden isn’t aggressive—he's a smotherer, not a biter. If anything, he's more likely to drown someone in affection than take a chunk out of them. But, I do think our mystery man shot the dogs."

Nevermore clicked his beak. “Do you think these missing dogs attacked first? I can't imagine this man of ours harming a pet without provocation, especially with a gun. Not if he’s trying to keep a low profile.” He turned his head, eyeing the bodies with something close to skepticism. “Still, why are these dogs here? Odd behavior for a bunch of lost pets.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Doesn’t add up.”

Something smelled off about them—not just the blood and decay, but something deeper. A wrongness clung to them, sharp and sour, like the scent of sickness, but not one I could identify.

Maggie whined, pressing against my leg, ears flattened. She didn’t like it either.

That was enough for me.

I led Maggie back toward the depot, hoping to piece together a better picture. The man and Boden had been here, just like at Veneer, just like at Meetings—searching containers. But then, the missing dogs had shown up, closing in from the same direction they’d later fled.

Coy sniffed along the pavement, weaving between containers with a rare sense of purpose. He halted near a faded smear of blood, barely more than a few drops on the sun-baked asphalt. I crouched beside him, brushing my fingers over the stain. Almost too dry to notice.

“Our man was bleeding,” I said, frowning. “Not a lot, but enough.”

Nevermore landed nearby, tilting his head. “So he wasn’t just fending them off—he took a bite.”

Maggie circled ahead, tracking the faint, lingering scent of the pack. They’d scattered after the attack, heading back toward the suburbs. But the man’s scent veered in the opposite direction, straight to the parking lot where I suspected he’d left his car.

“What would sic a pack of pets on someone?” I muttered.

Nevermore shifted, talons scraping against the metal container. “Something must have turned them. Stray dogs will form packs, and some can become aggressive, but this doesn’t feel natural.” He ruffled his feathers. “Then again, maybe I’m biased toward assuming something supernatural. Being a talking bird and all.”

I frowned at the collar still in my hand. Daisy. Matty. Just two among dozens of missing dogs.

"They all had bite marks," I murmured, mostly to myself. "Probably from other dogs."

I turned to Nevermore. "Didn’t you say some infectious curses could spread through a bite? Could that explain this?"

Nevermore considered. "It’s possible, but for it to manifest and spread this quickly, it would need to be actively channeled."

I narrowed my eyes. “What does that mean?”

"It means someone would have to cast the spell and sustain it. A passive curse—like the one you may be afflicted with—needs time to develop. But something like this, something capable of affecting so many creatures this quickly, would require active facilitation. Like someone performing a ritual or spell."

I exhaled sharply. "Assuming, of course, that this is even supernatural. I don’t mean to Occam’s Razor this, but jumping to the conclusion that some evil sorcerer—or practitioner or whatever—cast a spell that turned dogs into killing machines feels like bit of a stretch. Even for me. As weird as this is, there’s probably a more rational explanation.”

“Of course,” Nevermore agreed. Though, like me, he didn’t sound convinced.

I pointed toward the lot. “He got in the car—Boden, I mean—and left with the man.”

Nevermore was quiet for a moment before landing beside me. “Then the trail goes cold.”

I nodded, my thoughts churning.

Something strange had happened here—something I didn’t fully understand. And Boden, sweet, goofy, too-friendly-for-his-own-good Boden, had gotten caught in the middle of it. And, if his magical nature played a role in this, if Sandy's speculation was correct, it only complicated things.

And now, if I wanted to find him, I’d have to get involved in... whatever this was.

Or…

I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. “I’m going to have to tell JT Boden’s missing.”

The words tasted bitter. I’d done everything I could. Followed every lead. But whatever Boden was caught up in now, it was over my head.

I could only hope JT would understand.

I stood up, straightening my clothes and turned to Maggie and Coy.

“Come on,” I said. “We’ve done what we can here. Time to head home.”

Maggie and Coy didn’t move.

That was when their distress finally hit me—a slow, heavy wave of sadness emanating from them. They didn’t want to stop. Not now.

It hadn’t occurred to me until this moment that I wasn’t the only one bothered by Boden’s disappearance. To me, he was a responsibility. But to them, and probably the rest of the dogs, he was family.

I’d been too caught up in my own head to notice. Maybe it had been too subtle at first for me to intuitively pick up on, or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention. But now, after finding the missing dogs and losing Boden’s trail, even I, in my obliviousness, couldn’t help but notice it.

Nevermore, either reading the moment or simply being observant, fluttered closer. “We could follow the missing dogs’ trail,” he suggested. “Might lead to more answers.”

“No,” I said sharply, the word leaving my mouth before I could temper it. “We’re not following that.”

Nevermore tilted his head. “Why not? The trail could lead to—”

“What, more dead dogs?” I cut in, my tone edged. The humid air pressed down on me, thick and suffocating. “We know Boden’s not there. He left with the man. That’s all we need to know.”

Coy whined softly, his body tense with indecision, torn between the trail and me. Maggie stepped closer, pressing her shoulder against my leg.

Usually, she did that to steady me. But now, it felt like the other way around.

Maybe she was grounding herself. Maybe she was trying to herd me toward the trail.

Maybe it was both.

Either way, now she was the one who needed reassurance.

I knelt, running my hand along her back, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath beneath my palm. “We’ll find him, I promise,” I murmured, not entirely sure if I was saying it for her sake or mine. I wasn’t giving up, but damn if it felt like it.

As I stroked her fur, a sensation stirred deep within me—vast, immense, like staring down from a great height and feeling the pull of something just beyond my reach.

A feeling I knew all too well.

I froze.

Digging into my purse, I pulled out my phone, careful to keep Elmo from making a break for it.

6:45 p.m.

My stomach twisted.

An hour and thirty minutes until moonrise.

And I was at least twenty, maybe thirty minutes from the car.

“Ah, crap,” I muttered.

Nevermore alighted on a low branch, clicking his beak in that infuriatingly knowing way. “Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?”

“Thank you for the timely reminder,” I snapped, shoving the phone back into my pocket. I turned to the dogs. “We’ll continue looking for Boden tomorrow, but right now, we really need to get home. I can’t be out like this for much longer.”

I sensed their reluctance, the unspoken resignation in the way they hesitated before falling in line. Even though I knew this wasn’t my fault, the weight of it settled over me like a personal failure. But what the hell could I do?

We took the most direct route back to the Park Circle Community Center, avoiding Boden’s winding trail in favor of the main roads. It should have been a quick walk.

But Maggie—who had been an absolute trooper all day—was finally starting to show her age.

She never complained, never faltered, but now, the fatigue in her steps was undeniable. There was no doubt in my mind that I wouldn’t have made it this far without her, but I needed to remind myself that she wasn’t invincible. Hell, for all I knew, she, unlike the other, was just a normal dog.

For a brief moment, I considered carrying her, but she insisted she was fine, so I let her walk.

Besides, we had time.

Once we got to the car, it wouldn’t take more than twenty minutes to get home.

It was only a twenty-minute drive home. No need to rush.

That’s what I told myself.

But no matter how I tried to focus on that, my nerves were fraying. The weight of everything pressed down on me—Boden’s disappearance, the mystery of the cologne-soaked man, the dogs who had seemingly turned violent. The puzzle pieces refused to fit together, and worse, my mind kept constructing increasingly grim possibilities.

And underneath it all, something else stirred—the wild, restless energy rising inside me, answering the call of the moon as it climbed toward the horizon.

I inhaled deeply through my nose, exhaled slow. Keep it together.

“Doesn’t that look like your car?”

Nevermore’s voice cut through my thoughts—subdued, hesitant.

I looked up just in time to see a tow truck pulling out of the community center lot.

A black Nissan Altima wrenched to the back.

My Nissan Altima.

For a heartbeat, my brain refused to process what I was seeing. Then Ms. Patterson’s voice echoed in my head, smug and matter-of-fact: Those boots have trackers, you know.

Oh, God.

How could I have forgotten something so important?

“No, no, no,” I stammered, dropping the leashes and breaking into a sprint, as if sheer willpower alone could stop the truck from disappearing down the street. But it was already gone, taking my car, my cash, my spare clothes—everything I hadn’t thought to carry with me.

I stopped and just stared.

Coy barked happily, tail wagging like this was all part of some game of tag. Maggie, after catching up, sat beside me, calm and steady, watching the tow truck with mild curiosity.

The panic hit all at once, cold and sharp.

No car.

No cash.

No cards.

Nevermore landed on the curb beside me, tilting his head. “Did you leave your money in the car?”

“Yes,” I said flatly.

He hesitated. “Think you can hire a cab?”

“None of my cards work,” I muttered, barely hearing myself over the rush of blood in my ears.

Nevermore clicked his beak. “How long would it take to walk?”

I wobbled on my feet, then sank onto the nearest bench, pressing my face into my hands.

More than four hours. That's how long it take to get home.

The closest bridge into West Ashley had no pedestrian path. That bridge was miles downriver. Even if I ran, I wouldn’t make it in time.

The sun still hung high in the sky, and soon, the moon would be joining it. My pulse pounded in my throat, a steady, rhythmic drumbeat counting down the inevitable.

I’d go full wolf in broad daylight.

Worse, it was on the eve of the full moon. I wouldn't be able to control the wolf as I had the nights before. She'd be too driven by her instinct to listen to reason.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed.

The alarm I’d set.

One hour.

One hour until moonrise.

One hour until I turned into a werewolf in the middle of suburbia.