Page 21 of His Lucky Charm

Rafferty responded by flopping down at my feet, resting his massive head on my lap in a gesture so doggish it made me laugh. I set aside the notebook to properly scratch behind his ears with both hands, which earned me a sound somewhere between a growl and a purr.

“You’re just a big puppy, aren’t you?” I teased, then yelped as he nipped gently at my fingers in protest. “Alright, not a puppy. A majestic Guardian of supernatural lineage. Better?”

He huffed what seemed to be agreement, settling more comfortably against me. For a long time, we stayed like that—me stroking his fur, occasionally making notes, while he dozed or watched me with those intelligent eyes that somehow managed to convey the essence of Rafferty despite their altered appearance.

Eventually, he stood, stretching in a way that reminded me strangely of his human form waking up in the morning. He moved to the cabin door, then looked back at me expectantly.

“You want to go out?” I guessed.

A nod—that same deliberate, human gesture that had first convinced me of his dual nature.

“Lead the way,” I said, grabbing a jacket and my notebook. “Though fair warning, I’m not nearly as fast as you are.”

That wolfish mouth seemed to curve in what might have been a smile. Then he was nosing open the door (specially designed with a lever handle for paw operation, I’d noted earlier) and bounding into the moonlit forest.

I followed at a more sedate pace, guided by the russet shape that would periodically reappear to ensure I was still coming. The night was clear and cool, the forest alive with sounds and scents I could only partially perceive. For Rafferty, with his enhanced senses, it must have been a symphony of information.

He led me to a small clearing not far from the cabin—a natural hollow ringed by ancient pines, their needles creating a soft carpet underfoot. In the center bubbled a tiny spring, its water gleaming silver in the moonlight.

“It’s beautiful,” I said softly, understanding why he wanted to share this place.

Rafferty padded to the spring, drinking deeply before looking up at the moon overhead. Then, without warning, he threw back his head and howled—a long, haunting sound that seemed to fill the entire forest.

The sound resonated in my chest, stirring something primal and wordless. Before I could analyze the feeling, answering howls rose from the distant hills—other pack members acknowledging their future leader’s call.

Rafferty turned to me, eyes gleaming with something that looked like invitation.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious. “I can’t howl. I’m human, remember?”

He made a chuffing sound that I’d come to recognize as laughter, then approached me with that fluid grace. He bumped his head against my chest, then looked up at the moon again, before returning his gaze to me.

“You want me to try?” I realized, incredulous. “Seriously?”

A definite nod.

“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, feeling my cheeks heat. “I’m going to sound absurd.”

Rafferty simply waited, patient but expectant. I sighed, glancing around as if someone might witness this moment of academic dignity suicide.

“The things I do for research,” I grumbled, then tilted my head back to look at the moon. Taking a deep breath, I attempted what I hoped was a reasonable approximation of a howl.

The sound that emerged was… well, pathetic would be generous. Something between a vocal warm-up exercise and a cat with laryngitis.

Rafferty’s entire massive body shook with what was unmistakably laughter.

“Yes, hilarious,” I said dryly. “The human can’t howl properly. What a shock.”

He nudged my hand with his nose, those intelligent eyes somehow encouraging despite the obvious amusement in them. Try again, he seemed to say.

“Fine. One more attempt, for science.” I closed my eyes this time, trying to feel rather than think. I imagined what it might be like to experience the world as Rafferty did—every sense heightened, every emotion intensified, connected to something ancient and wild.

The howl that emerged from my throat this time was still human, still imperfect—but it held something more. Something that reached beyond rationality toward the primitive core that exists in all of us.

When I opened my eyes, Rafferty was watching me with an expression of what looked remarkably like pride. Then he joined his voice to mine, our disparate sounds—one human, one wolf—twining together and rising toward the stars.

It was, perhaps, the least academic moment of my life. And one of the most profound.

When our howls faded, Rafferty pressed against my side, a warm, solid presence in the cool night air. I wrapped an arm around his massive shoulders, feeling the strength contained in that supernatural form.