Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

"So... you’re telling me you brought a dog into my office?"

Nick Fury stared at the unlikely pair standing before his desk, his expression hovering somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion.

He had sent Phil Coulson to investigate a mysterious warlock.

Coulson had returned with a Siberian Husky.

Not just any husky, either. The hyperactive breed that had somehow earned a reputation as the world’s most enthusiastic collection of bad decisions.

And according to Coulson...

...this dog was "critical mission support."

"Sir, I realize how this sounds," Coulson admitted with an awkward cough. "But that’s exactly what happened."

Even he still found it surreal. A senior S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, standing before the Director, solemnly presenting a husky as a strategic asset.

Fury rubbed his temple.

"I am now completely convinced that this warlock can tamper with people’s minds," he muttered. "I’m beginning to think you’ve had yours scrambled."

He crouched in front of the husky, extending a hand.

"Hey, mutt. Paw."

The dog slowly lifted its head.

Its icy blue eyes narrowed.

"Listen carefully," it growled in perfect English. "Call me ’mutt’ one more time and I’ll bite your head clean off. I won’t even need to stop chewing."

Silence.

Fury shot upright so quickly his chair nearly tipped over.

His single eye darted between Coulson and the dog several times before he finally managed,

"...Agent Coulson."

"Yes, sir?"

"What exactly am I looking at?"

Coulson fought remarkably hard to keep a straight face.

"To be honest, Director, I reacted about the same way."

Watching Nick Fury get blindsided was strangely therapeutic. It almost made up for the psychological damage Coulson had suffered the first time he’d heard a dog start talking.

"And, sir... his name is Habs."

The husky stood, stretched lazily, and yawned.

"I speak. Humans speak. Why is this difficult for you people?"

Fury stared.

Somewhere, Charles Darwin was probably trying to climb out of his grave just to file a formal complaint.

"Would somebody explain what the hell is happening?"

The explanation began the previous afternoon.

Just as Coulson had been preparing to leave Evenson Richter’s antique shop, Evenson had casually mentioned he could provide a little assistance with the Tony Stark rescue mission.

Then he called Habs over.

When Coulson saw that the promised reinforcement was... a husky...

His blood pressure nearly doubled.

The United States military possessed satellites, reconnaissance aircraft, elite special forces, and countless military working dogs.

Why, exactly, had they been issued someone’s pet?

"We already apologized for suspecting you," Coulson had said, struggling to remain polite. "But if this is your idea of getting even, it’s going a little too far."

Habs, sitting with his tongue hanging out, looked up at him.

Then spoke.

The words themselves hardly mattered.

The fact that they came from a dog did.

Coulson froze.

"...What?"

After several long seconds, he managed another sentence.

"Is that ventriloquism? An illusion? Some kind of spell?"

Any sane person would search desperately for another explanation before accepting that a dog had just spoken fluent English.

Naturally, Coulson suspected Evenson was using magic to prank him in retaliation for S.H.I.E.L.D.’s earlier suspicions.

Evenson only smiled.

"No tricks. That was him."

Then he tilted his head.

"Besides... why are you so certain he’s a dog?"

Coulson blinked.

"He looks like a dog."

"Sure."

"He acts like a dog."

"Also true."

"I’m fairly certain he’s licensed as a dog."

"...Technically, yes."

Evenson paused.

His confident smile slowly faltered.

Those three points together were... admittedly difficult to argue with.

"...Those are external details," he insisted after a moment. "What’s important is what’s inside."

Coulson folded his arms.

"Fine. What’s inside?"

"I currently suspect you’ve murdered a hundred people conducting magical brain-transplant experiments. Maybe you put a human brain inside a dog."

"A human larynx would also be necessary," Evenson corrected automatically.

Seeing Coulson’s horrified expression, he sighed.

"You’ve watched far too many movies."

"This isn’t a dog."

"It’s my magical companion."

"My... what?"

The term meant even less to Coulson than the talking dog.

At least science fiction had produced talking animals before.

Magical companion?

That was new.

"Habs."

Evenson nodded toward the center of the room.

"Show him."

A pulse of crimson light erupted.

The husky vanished.

In its place stood a nightmare.

The creature was nearly the size of a calf, its body covered in crimson scales and lined with jagged black spines. Massive ivory horns curved forward from its shoulders like sharpened spears.

Its head possessed no flesh whatsoever.

Only a skeletal, beak-like maw packed with rows of razor teeth, drool dripping steadily onto the floor.

It had no eyes.

Instead, two long sensory tendrils projected from its skull, each ending in a flower-like cluster of vicious barbs that slowly unfurled as though tasting the air.

Coulson’s hand shot toward his pistol.

"What... is that?"

Most civilians would have fainted.

Coulson merely prepared to draw.

"That’s a Felhound," Evenson explained calmly. "Not the mythological hellhound. Different creature."

"And before you ask, no, he isn’t actually a dog."

"He’s a demon."

"My magical companion."

He deliberately left out the details.

Trying to explain the Twisting Nether, demons, and the Burning Legion would only encourage S.H.I.E.L.D. to classify everything as extraterrestrial. It wasn’t entirely inaccurate, but it would create far more questions than answers.

Coulson circled the creature carefully.

"My first thought was illegal bioengineering."

"You think I can afford a biotechnology laboratory?"

Evenson laughed.

"I promise that’s not where he came from."

"If you really want the explanation, it’s all written in that book."

He gestured toward the ominous grimoire.

Coulson took one look at it.

"No."

His refusal was immediate.

After his previous experience inside this shop, every book on the premises felt like a loaded weapon.

Especially the one rumored to strip the skin from its readers.

Coulson glanced back at the Felhound.

"I’ll admit... it looks dangerous."

"But our mission isn’t combat."

"Our priority is locating Tony Stark."

Once Stark’s position was confirmed, Coulson had every confidence the U.S. military could make the kidnappers regret every life choice that had led them to that cave.

Finding him remained the real challenge.

Evenson’s grin widened.

"Then you’ve come to the right place."

He rested a hand against one of Habs’ bony spines.

"A Felhound’s greatest strength isn’t fighting."

"It’s tracking."

"If your target is anywhere within roughly three kilometers..."

"...he’ll find them."

"Even if they’ve been reduced to ashes."

"He’ll drag you straight to the pile and start digging."

"I sincerely hope that analogy never becomes relevant," Coulson muttered.

Then he looked at the horrifying creature once more.

"Can he change back?"

"This form isn’t exactly... public friendly."

Evenson chuckled.

Another flash of red light.

The monstrous Felhound disappeared.

In its place sat the same familiar husky, tongue lolling happily from its mouth, looking every bit like the lovable idiot it had been before.

As though the nightmare had never existed.

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