Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 42

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.

little comments only makes it worse, so I stay

not going to

approaches the bed. He doesn’t reach

work," he murmurs, reaching under

dark object. A hair elastic. Simple and ordinary,

examining the tiny band. "She used it recently, probably to tie her hair back. There are some strands in here

track her

spectacles. "I can try. It’ll be stronger if I have

toward the en-suite. "Check her

kicked to the foot of the bed. There’s a pillow, but it doesn’t smell

room and put them

don’t need to bring them; I’ll just

within five hundred miles, I should

straighten, a prickling sensation crawling

few steps to

spindly fingers clutching Grace’s hairbrush. His eyes are closed, lips moving in rapid succession as he mumbles in a strange language. It sounds like ten strangled cats attempting to meow

air shifts, a faint breeze materializing from nowhere. The bathroom mirror fogs, then clears, then

light as they flutter in an organized pattern, circling Thom’s face like a living crown. Each one

skin like ants. I resist the urge to claw at them. Magic always has this

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

edge of the sink. His breath comes in ragged gasps, sweat beading on his pale forehead and dripping down his temples. The

my neck, where the itching is

High Alpha." His voice sounds raspy, drained. "My seekers will find her if she’s within my

an alarming shade of red, and

Look at him—a dozen flying paper weights and he

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