Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 98: Caine: The Kids

CAINE

Something about these children sets my senses on edge.

I watch the kid closely as he speaks about the small sleeping forms in the alcove. His body language shifts constantly—defensive, protective, cautious. But it’s not his movements that catch my attention. It’s his scent.

A strange undertone clings to him. Sweet. Fruity. Similar to overripe strawberries, but not quite the same. It’s subtle beneath his normal teenage smell—sweat, hormones, and a hint of animal musk.

At first whiff, he smells like a wolf.

I take a deeper breath, letting my senses expand through the cave. The little one, Bun—she smells like prey at her baseline. Rabbit.

But different as they are, they all share the same signature of scent. Strangely, almost synthetically fruity.

Owen doesn’t carry it at all; he smells of summer and wind and something cleaner. Not human, though. Something else is there, but it’s not like theirs.

"What kind of danger surrounds these kids?" I keep my voice low, even though I already know Grace is around the corner, listening. She probably thinks she’s being quiet, but I can hear every shallow breath and the faint brush of her clothes against the wall. "Why is Owen the one saving them?"

He doesn’t answer right away, looking instead toward the sleeping children. Then he rubs at his head with a long sigh, pulling at a few strands as he thinks my question over.

"There’s something rotting in the bones of this place," he finally says. "But it’s not just here. Packs have been weakening for decades. Even prey shifters are struggling."

His jaw tightens as he meets my eye. "More kids like us are being born. Owen tries to get them out when he can, but he fails more than he succeeds."

I’ve observed unrest among the packs, but it’s always attributed to politics. Natural power struggles. Nothing like this.

"What’s an aberrant?"

kid frowns. His eyes are too old for his face, his bearing too weary for his age. "Owen says we’re the world correcting itself. Spliced souls, carrying too much. Built to survive what’s coming. But we don’t shift right, so our packs don’t want us. Owen can’t fix it, but he can take us away. The people who want

unrest. This is something ancient and invisible working under the

of this. It sounds like a

"You’ve never hear about kids who die mysteriously? The weak ones. The sick ones. The ones nobody

I go quiet.

isn’t as if I’ve never heard of cubs lost to illness, or accidents.

they’ve never brought

which might have formed a more

have I

future of any

growing fast. In another year, he’ll look nothing like he does now. But he’s still

Once, a jerky little movement of his head. But it’s enough to see he’s

I probe, hesitant to push this kid much further. But he knows more,

us like a heavy stone. His words are so simple, and his facial expression shifts. Like

"Because she’s like us."

certainty in his voice collides with everything

My voice comes out hard, a little too sharp.

an eyebrow instead. "Aberrants can be human,

mind, the pack link opening without warning. It’s intrusive enough to wake

to hear

a frown to my face, and the kid watches intently. I force my expression into impassivity;

Well... sometimes.

this is not one

all in some sick magic ritual. Fiddleback

to force