You’ve been talkin’ to that charmer there. I won’t turn into a wolf when you get home.

It’s weird that in a place as close to a major tourist destination like Grand Marais, Black Beach Bay, Minnesota is an electronic black hole. Like FM radio doesn’t exist there, satellite radio for whatever reason doesn’t work there. Cellular data doesn’t work there. Seriously, anything newer than a Nokia candy bar is just a pretty hunk of glass and silicone. Literally the only thing that will play over the airwaves is the local AM station, KBMB.

I’m getting ahead of myself though. We got on the road at nearly ten pm that night and settled in for a two hour drive up Highway 61 (yeah, that Highway 61) up the North Shore. Our destination was about fifteen miles south of Grand Marais in the unincorporated town of Black Beach Bay, mostly a fishing town. Its name comes from a geographic oddity that results from the town’s past as a host to now defunct taconite and magnetite mines. Run of from the heavy iron deposits in the hills around the area caused the infusion of the sand on the beach with metallic deposits resulting in the characteristic color of the sand, making it one of only a small handful of black sand beaches in the world, and only one of three in the lower 48.

GPS cuts out about five miles outside of town, but Anwyn didn’t pay it any mind and just progressed along as if it were totally normal so I didn’t make a fuss about it out of fear of feeling stupid, but something in the air just felt… heavy. I’ve never been one to get car sick, so the cold sweat I broke into had me worrying a bit about whether the microwave dinner is scarfed down after going home had been somehow tainted.

“….ladies, gents, and those who don’t fit either category, stop by The Tent Pole; Cock Bait & Tackle gentleman’s club and sporting goods. We have master baits for the perfect seaman. In the store we have specials on night crawlers and suckers, half off and in the club tops are up, pants are down, and everybody goes into the hole. Seriously, who the heck writes the copy for these ads, Barbie?”

The AM jock, a guy who went by Danny Davis went through the ad spot with admirable aplomb considering its double entendre content. “I just book ‘em honey. Their cash is as good as anybody else. Now we’ve got the lines open and my board is lighting up like a Christmas tree, so how about we take some calls?” The woman, Davis’ producer ‘Barbie’ had a voice like maple syrup; slow, dark, and sweet.

As they started taking calls I tuned them out and turned to my colleague. “You said you’d tell me about the job on the way, and you haven’t spoken three words since Two Harbors, so this is me begging to be read in.”

“Sorry, driving takes up a lot of my concentration.”

“You said something about werewolves. Please tell me you were just yanking my chain.”

“Ok, do you want the truth or a comfortable lie?”

I sighed and steeled myself for what was to come. “Better to know too much than go in blind.”

“You may regret saying that.” Anwyn glanced my way for a second, returning her eyes to the front just in time to swerve to miss a coyote meandering up the center of the highway like it owned the road. “One of our clients lives in the woods outside Black Beach and is having trouble with something coming in and taking her livestock.”

“And do we have any reason to think this is a werewolf?”

“Oh, lots of reasons, but primary among them is that the client self-identified as such on her application.”

Wait…

“You mean the client is a werewolf?”

“Loup garou really. Werewolf is kind of a catch-all for all sorts of canid theriomorphs, but the type of ‘werewolf’ tells you a lot about them. Loup garou are born that way. No curse or satanic deals or any of that shit. And most of ‘em just want to be left alone to subsist on a high iron, high protein diet. Our client is one of them.”

“And she keeps livestock?”

“Yeah. Forget everything you’ve seen in the movies. Most werewolves are pretty nice people. Just like most people are pretty nice people. Doesn’t matter either way. She’s paid up on her premiums and wants professionals to take care of the problem, so that’s where we come in.”

Well, I’m nothing if not adaptable. “So what do we know about her predator?”

“It walks on two legs and has opposable thumbs, can pick locks, and leaves clawed footprints. Also it’s probably nocturnal, and clearly fast as fuck since it’s gone by the time her dogs can raise an alarm.”

“That’s… reassuring.”

“I know, right? It also hasn’t been killing her chickens on the spot, but taking them with it.”

“So it probably cooks its meals.”

“Either that or it’s got a Gonzo/Camilla thing going on. It’s a weird fuckin’ world out there, Miles.”

We parked on the side of the road about a mile north of town at the foot of a dirt driveway that meandered off into the tall ash and pine trees, which we assayed on foot, pine needles crunching between our boots. Nearly a quarter mile down this we caught sight of the house… well… cabin really. Don’t get me wrong, it was a nice cabin, complete with an outdoor brick oven and an incongruous in-ground hot tub. I admit I was winded from the walk when Anwyn just sort of ambled on up on the porch and knocked.

The woman who answered the door nearly turned me into a Looney Tunes style wolf myself. She was beautiful, with long red hair that brushed the small of her back and full welcoming lips. “You must be from the APA. I’m Red. Come on inside.”

(Title: “Invisible Man” by Mark Aaron James)