Chapter 9

Sawyer remainedon the front porch railing, hunched and tail lashing, as I walked down the garden path to the front gate. Daphne, who had waited in her car for my arrival, stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked around to open the rear passenger door. Inside the turquoise Thunderbird was the largest dog crate I’d ever seen.

“Might need a smidge of help getting this out,” she said sheepishly.

“How in the world did you even get itall in there?” Daphne had a drop of druid blood in her, but that didn’t normally lend itself to superhuman strength.

“Well, after I tranq’ed him, I got the dog crate into the backseat while the sedative took effect, then while he was still woozy but ambulatory, I persuaded him to go inside.” Persuaded. How very much like a druid.

Slipping a hand into my pocket, I extracted the vial of immature apple seeds I’d collected. They didn’t have the strength to become full trees, but for this spurt of magic, they were up to the task. Unscrewing the lid, I tapped a few into my palm and sprinkled them in a line from Daphne’s car to the front porch. Placing my hand against the ground, green light glowing beneath it, I called on the dormant life in the seeds. Saplings sprouted and grew at an incredible rate, the one by the open car door the largest and strongest. This one rammed its branches into the car, knitted into the all the gaps of the crate, and slid it—and the drugged dog inside—out into the open.

The rest of the trees acted as an assembly line, shuttling the crate to my front porch. As they worked, Daphne and I followed, the elder woman filling me on the dog’s history.

“Like I said, he’s absolute rubbish with other dogs, but he seems to tolerate people well enough. He’s still a bit touchy, though. He wouldn’t take his oral medications—both flea and antibiotic—so I had to force that down his throat, and he threw an absolute fit when I got the trimmers out.”

“Trimmers?”

“Well, he’s been running amok goodness knows where. Animal control was the one who brought him in, you know, reports of a hurt stray dog wandering the streets south of town. He must’ve come through fields and forests, I tell you, what with all the burs and stickers in his fur. It’s beautiful, by the way, a lovely golden white. And given his size, he has to be a Pyrenees/golden retriever mix or something. Anyway, I managed to brush as much of the gunk out as I could, but his underbelly… Nothing was getting that nice again except the trimmers. By the way, he’s definitely not neutered.”

“I… see.” We and the crate had reached the porch now, Sawyer growling softly as the last apple sapling slid the crate up the few stairs and pushed it against the house under one of the windows. Their task complete, the apple saplings shriveled back into the ground.

“Here’s his medicine for the little wound on his side,” she said, handing me a bottle of pink liquid with a dropper. “I’ve cleaned it out and it should heal just fine without any stitches, just make sure he doesn’t gnaw on it, okay? And he’s currently muzzled, by the way.”

By the way she was already backing away down the garden path, I had the sneaking suspicion that I wasn’t so much helping Daphne as she was offloading her problem on me.

“Ta-ta, dear. I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful fit here! Bye, Sawyer.” Quick as a deer, she was back in her car and speeding down the driveway before I could even say goodbye or demand she come back here and get this dog back into her car.

“I think you got duped,” Sawyer said as the Thunderbird rose a plume of dust in its wake, tires squealing as the car turned to head back into town.

“I think you mean ‘we,’” I said, setting the antibiotics aside and crouching down by the crate door.

It was one of those clamshell crates, two heavy-duty plastic halves secured by clasps with breathing holes along the top half and one metal gate. It didn’t allow for much light to enter and illuminate the sleeping dog inside, but I could see the barrel muzzle around his light-toned face well enough.

Still, I wanted to check out the wound on his side to verify how “little” it was without sticking my hand in there. Gripping the sides of the crate, I grunted as I wrestled it into a better position to receive the sunlight. Instantly, his fur glowed with a wonderous pale gold. Daphne had indeed been right about that; the dog’s fur was a beautiful color. The sunlight brought into sharp relief the rest of the dog’s features as well: the oversized paws, the large pointy ears, the sharp muzzle, the gleam of glowing amber eyes that had opened to slits with the movement of the crate.

I scuttled back from the crate with a shriek. Sawyer yowled in surprise, losing his balance on the porch railing. His back paws kicked nothing but air as he dangled from the railing by his front claws. Then he dropped into the myrtle, leaping back onto the porch a moment later, back arched and fur erect.

“What is it?” he screeched, voice pitching through half a dozen octaves in fright.

By now I’d scrambled to my feet, fists outstretched and writhing with emerald green light. I was a breath away from summoning battle magic, and, for a moment, I didn’t care.

“Misty!” Sawyer yowled.

“That’s not a dog in there,” I shouted. “Thistle thorns, that’s a werewolf!”

The sun was settingwhen the werewolf finally roused. It wasn’t a peaceful awakening, either.

The beast jerked to his feet, snarling and thrashing, the crate banging against the porch floorboards as it rocked side to side.

“Stop it.”

Laced with magic, my words lashed like the sting of a whip.

The werewolf paused in his destruction, teeth bared and panting.

“You’ll ruin my sweater.”

The beast glanced down at his feet. The sweater I’d been wearing that morning, before discovering that the dog Daphne had given me was no dog at all, lay at the bottom of its crate. It had been draped around the werewolf’s shoulders all afternoon, allowing the beast to acclimate to my scent while he was still drugged. I’d risked opening the crate only once, just enough to clasp a collar around his neck and put my sweater inside.

The werewolf lifted glowing amber eyes—the reason I’d known it was a shifter at all—and snarled.

“You’re being very rude.” It took all my willpower to sound nonchalant, as if sitting on the front porch only a yard away from a caged werewolf and sipping from a mug of tea was my average Wednesday afternoon. In reality, Sawyer and I spent the remainder of the day preparing for this exact conversation. I had wards and containment spells and only a bazillion seeds and potions at my disposal to activate at a moment’s notice if this went south. “You want that muzzle off or not?”

To prove he didn’t need my help, the werewolf dropped his head, dug his claws into the mesh of barrel, and ripped the muzzle free with a loud snap.

“Okay, fine.” I shrugged. “So you can get out of that muzzle, but can you—”

The air between us shimmered as the crate burst apart, bits of plastic and metal bouncing off the force field generated by the half-circle of crystals in front of me. Half of the crate confetti embedded into my farmhouse siding, mercifully avoiding the windows, the other spraying into the flower beds. I took another calm sip of my tea even as my pulse thundered in my ears.

“Impressive,” I said, my tone still conveying how boring I found this whole situation to be, “but the reason why you haven’t shifted back into a human is…?”

The werewolf snarled.

“I know, I know, you’re more dangerous as a wolf, but it’s something you really ought to think about.”

There was a pause as he must’ve tried to shift, and then his amber eyes grew round.

I finally set my mug aside and wagged a finger at him. “You were snooping around Flora Ironweed’s house this morning, weren’t you? I helped her place those wards, the very ones that are preventing you from shifting back and that gave you that star-shaped wound on your shoulder.”

Leaning to the side, I plucked the bottle of antibiotics from where I’d left it on the windowsill and gave it a shake, the liquid sloshing inside. “This? This isn’t going to help you one bit. No, that plant that got you injected you with a seed, like how a parasitoid wasp does its eggs into a caterpillar. It’s gonna burrow and root and use your body as its own pot of compost to grow the most beautiful flowers out of your dead body. Carnivorous clematis is what it’s called. The petals take on the colors of the host, so I expect to see some shimmering golden ones in just a week. Maybe two; you look like you’re a fighter.”

The werewolf paled. Then he whipped around and started gnawing at the wound on his shoulder.

“Eh! Quit it. It’s been in your body for over twelve hours now. Chewing at your shoulder isn’t going to do a lick of good. But I can tell you what will. But first, you gotta be a good boy and sit.”

Snarling, the beast told me exactly what he thought about me asking him to sit like a good boy.

“Fine. Don’t take the antidote. Stay a wolf forever until that flower blooms. Or… Are you gonna sit and let me tell you?”

Growling, the werewolf slammed his fanny down on the porch with a loud thump.

“And close your mouth. You have pretty white teeth, but I don’t like the way you’re smiling at me.”

The beast slowly lowered his lips, covering his fangs.

“Good boy. Now I have a deal for you. In exchange for your antidote, which you have to take every day for ten consecutive days, you’ll be my farm dog. Eh!” I snapped my fingers at him as his lips peeled back into another snarl. “That means no mouthing off, too. We’ve been having some coyotes prowling around and threatening my hobs, chickens, and my cat. You’re going to keep them away, fight them if necessary. I’ll give you your antidote and food and a place to stay. And when that seed is dead and you can shift back, I’m going to want an answer, too.”

The werewolf looked away with a snort. The collar I’d slipped over his neck earlier that day gleamed in the setting sun. I’d fashioned it like I had my parasite bracelet, with briars and crystals, but his fur was so thick and the collar so light, he hadn’t even noticed it yet.

“Or that collar I put on your neck while you were drugged will tighten around your throat until it pops your head clean off your body,” I said sweetly. It wouldn’t—I wasn’t that sadistic—but he didn’t know that.

He sprang onto all four paws, circling as he tried to catch a glimpse of the collar, finally bracing his front paws on the windowsill to use the reflection to verify that, indeed, there was a noose around his throat. On the other side of the window, Sawyer, who had been watching the whole exchange from the safety of the house, leapt up with a hiss and swatted at the glass with his paw.

The werewolf stumbled away, momentarily startled. Then he howled, amber eyes flaring and all those pearly white teeth showing in full force once again.

I unfolded my legs from where they were crossed to stretch them out, still behind the safety of my crystal shield, and picked up my mug for another sip. “Don’t get fussy with me, mister. You were snooping around my friend’s house. She’ll want to know why, especially since you don’t seem associated with those magic hunters lurking around town.”

His ears pricked at that tidbit of information, confirming my suspicions. He was his own agent, and the magic hunters would pose a serious threat to him if he wasn’t careful, especially trapped in his wolf form with a carnivorous clematis seed trying to turn his body into fertilizer.

“You protect the farm, and I’ll protect you,” I said softly, reasonably. “Not a bad trade, considering I could just let that seed eat you from the inside out.”

With a huff, the werewolf sat back on his haunches once more, lowering his head with a grumble. Accepting my offer.

“Excellent,” I said, rocking forward to dismantle the crystal shield and put the stones back in my pocket. “Now, that collar prevents you from leaving the property. You can enter any building on the farm except the farmhouse. While I’ve allowed you access to the porch so you can stay out of the rain, the hearth will do more than singe your fur if you try to enter. Understand?”

He nodded, grumbling again.

“Heh, I think I just figured out what I’m going to call you, too.” I leaned down, bracing my hands on my knees so I could look him in his amber eyes. I didn’t need to go far, the werewolf was the size of a Great Dane. “Grumpy.”

Grumpy’s lips pulled back into a tight, soundless sneer.

“Yep, you’re definitely Grumpy.” He was just as ornery and surly as that half-heart embedded in the grimoire hidden in the crawlspace. “Now stay there while I fix up your dinner and your first round of antidote. You can sleep on the porch tonight and tomorrow I’ll show you around the farm, m’kay?”