Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 41: Caine: Tracking (II)

CAINE

We reach Grace’s door, and I pause, inhaling deeply. Her scent lingers, but it’s already growing fainter. She’s already been gone for two days, and the knowledge makes my blood simmer. I spent a day and a half going to the Forest Springs Pack and back for nothing; if this warlock doesn’t deliver results, the weak grasp I have on my sanity might slip after all.

"What about defensive spells?" The question surprises me as much as it does him.

Thom blinks rapidly. "I—well, I can ward off a bee."

So, useless.

The vague thought in my head to keep him around to protect her fades in an instant.

We wouldn’t have to worry about her safety if you’d charmed her a little. Would it have really killed you to smile at her even once? Maybe apologize for killing the man who was once her father?

My molars grind together. "Who was the one to rip out his throat, Fenris?"

At your order, he says. Don’t make me the same as you. She liked me. She doesn’t like you.

Knowing it’s true only makes the damn itch worse, and I slam Grace’s door open with a grunt. Her scent comes in a rush, and I inhale deeply.

The itch fades.

"Find what you need," I tell Thom. "But don’t touch anything more than necessary."

The warlock nods and steps inside, his eyes sweeping the space with professional interest. I remain in the doorway, arms folded, watching as he moves cautiously through the room that held her.

You still don’t see it, Fenris says.

only makes it

not going

bed. He doesn’t reach for the sheets as I feared, but instead crouches

murmurs, reaching under

a small, dark object. A hair elastic. Simple and ordinary, yet my fingers itch to grab

is strong on this," Thom says, examining the tiny band. "She used it

track

it through those ridiculous spectacles. "I can try. It’ll be stronger if I have something with

nodding toward

a mess, blankets kicked to the foot of the bed. There’s a

blanket from her room and

them; I’ll just sleep

she’s within five hundred miles, I

a prickling sensation crawling up

a few steps to

are closed, lips moving in rapid succession as he mumbles

faint breeze materializing from nowhere. The bathroom

existence around his head. Translucent wings glow with an unnatural light as they flutter in an organized pattern, circling Thom’s face like a living crown. Each one looks

crawling across my skin like ants. I resist the urge to claw at them. Magic always has this effect on me; it’s one of the reasons I avoid warlocks

irises glowing the same white as the butterflies. He barks a final word in his screechy voice and splays his hands outward. The butterflies shoot away as if propelled by an invisible force, zooming in

sweat beading on his pale forehead and dripping down his temples. The entire

the itching is most intense. "How long before we

straightens with effort, adjusting those ridiculous glasses. "Just a few minutes, High Alpha." His voice sounds raspy, drained. "My seekers

alarming shade of red,

found wolf prejudice against magic-users pointless. Look at him—a dozen flying paper weights and