Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 103: Jack-Eye: Hooked

JACK-EYE

My left leg cramps for the fifth time in an hour. Fuck compact SUVs and their contempt for anyone over six feet tall. I shift, trying to find a position that doesn’t feel like my knees are pressed against my throat, but there’s no relief to be found in this rolling sardine can.

Dawn’s coming, with weak pink and gold fingers creeping across the lightening sky.

And we’re still on the highway.

No known destination, being driven by someone more likely to turn us into amphibians than answer questions.

We’ve been driving all night, and the mood in the car has settled from the aftermath of rage and deep sorrow into something fragile. Like if we breathe wrong, we might remember everything all over again.

In the back seat, the Blue Mountain kid’s snoring with his head pressed against the window. The sniveling wizard is asleep against his shoulder, twitching occasionally. Once he flinched so hard, his glasses flew off his face. It still didn’t wake him up, even when Owen shoved them back on.

The strange guy—an angel, or something related to one... apparently—has been awake this entire time, like he’s used to forgoing sleep for missions.

And then there’s Lyre.

One arm drapes across the steering wheel with casual confidence, the other resting against her door. Like she could drive this road with her eyes closed.

She hasn’t spoken in hours, but her lips have gone from a tight line to slightly pursed, and her eyes no longer crinkle at the corners, more relaxed as she stares ahead. There’s still the hint of simmering rage burning the air around her, but at least I’m reasonably sure she won’t set the car on fire.

I catch it again—a faint shimmer across her knuckles. A subtle glow pulsing beneath her skin when she thinks no one’s looking.

but even I can recognize it’s greater than anything I’ve seen before. And it’s barely contained by a slip of a girl with

the SUV gliding smoothly off the highway

getting close?" I ask, rolling my shoulders to work out the

voice is flat.

Damn it.

stop for gas and Thom’s desperate rush to the bathroom—both to rinse out his vomit-stale mouth and to use the more traditional facilities—we haven’t gotten a break from this damn tin

of mortal peril if you look

her profile, the sharp line of her jaw, the slight upturn of her nose. Everything about her is a contradiction—she looks soft, yet she’s capable of

watched her walk out of that place, hands clean but eyes

like she does, that’s for fucking sure. There’s a reason he has

stirs. His eyes flutter open, landing on Lyre with an unsettling intensity. "She’s..." His voice drops

poetic than usual,

to the rearview mirror, then back to

to answer. It’s the kind of shit I’d call Caine out on in a

the bridge of her nose. I hadn’t noticed them before, when we were knee-deep in blood and crisis. They’re unexpected on someone so intimidating—like finding wildflowers growing

certainty that she belongs exactly where she

But this feeling crawling up my spine isn’t just attraction. It’s different. Thrilling. Staring at a beautiful predator and wondering if it

without taking her eyes off the road. Her tone is dry as dust, and I wonder if it would change

of

the corner of my mouth lift and aim for an answer less... explosive. "Trying

bother." The words slice cold and clean between us. "You wouldn’t

"It’s better not to meddle with the likes of an Echo Witch." He sounds reverent, but the kind