Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 104: Jack-Eye: Rot and Rainbows

JACK-EYE

My already cramped leg slams against the door panel as we hit another pothole.

Fuck these fucking soccer mom SUVs.

A shabby excuse for a structure comes into view through the dusty windshield. It’s not much—just a weathered storage shed with a half-assed attempt at a deck slapped against its side. It has a cheap metal roof and probably leaks every time it rains.

There’s nothing but overgrown weeds and sparse pine trees. And probably about five hundred species of spiders, but we won’t talk about how a single big, bad Lycan is terrified of brown recluse bites.

I’ve seen shit, okay? And it’s nasty.

Anyway, this is the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked driving past, but Lyre’s already slowing down.

Andrew leans forward. "Huh. Looks like someone’s trying to build a tiny house."

Yeah, and failed.

Nobody answers his inane observation. Thom’s not snoring anymore—guess his head was too rattled from the gravel road to allow for more sleeping—and Owen’s so tense he’s radiating nervous energy through the car.

Lyre’s frowning. She isn’t relaxed anymore, either, but she doesn’t have the edge of anticipation I can smell off Owen. No, she seems... irritated. Maybe disappointed. The scents keep coming and going, blending together until it’s hard to tell them apart.

Whatever she was looking for, this isn’t it. Or at least, it isn’t what she expected to find.

She kills the engine but stays frozen in her seat. Her fingers start tapping against the wheel, one-two-three, one-two-three, like she’s keeping time with a funeral march only she can hear.

Fuck waiting. I need to move before my leg permanently fuses to this position. Whoever’s here must have already heard us coming, so it isn’t like I’m going to destroy the surprise of our arrival.

Shouldering the door open, I slide out with a grunt. My back pops in three places as I stretch, the muscles in my thighs screaming in protest.

into an accordion

moment the back door opens. Andrew’s more graceful about it, with all the edge of youth, but even he’s got relief written all over his face

have to hide the creaking joints. Don’t want Lyre thinking I’m too

be out of the stench of armpit and stale cigarettes. No one here smokes; it’s just baked into

doesn’t move. She just sits there, fingers still tapping, eyes focused on the shed

and take a deep

Then I freeze.

the good forest smells of pine and dirt and morning dew, but something rancid. Not

is deeper. Older.

stink that permeated Isabeau’s prison, but less diluted. More concentrated. The kind of stench where you want to

human skin. Every muscle coils tight, ready to shift,

his shoulders rigid. Andrew’s mouth

bend down to peer through the passenger

Holy shit.

those strange eyes, a cold fury building. She looks like

Caine’s face plenty of

wolf whimpers in the back of my head. Fucking coward. He’s been a mess ever since Lyre turned the

knees turn to rubber for a bit, too.

and slides out

looking at any of us. "We’re

us would want to stick

starts moving toward the shed, I step in front of her, putting my body between

me into a smear on the ground with less effort than it takes me to shift. But some instincts run deeper than

got one perfect brow arched like she knows exactly what I’m

It’s fine.

like I’m trying

just basic