Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 106: Jack-Eye: Irrational, But Still

I push the door open wider, stepping inside the shed first because that’s what you do when you’re second-in-command. Take point. Assessment. Protection. All that shit.

Definitely not because I want Lyre noticing how I can take care of her, even if she’s the strongest person in this motley little crew of ours.

The rush of lemon hits my nostrils again, but underneath it—

"Fuck."

A body sprawls across the concrete floor, limbs at all the wrong angles like someone dropped him from a height. The position is too awkward, too unnatural. Like he tried to curl up before the end.

"What is it?" Andrew calls from behind me.

I don’t answer right away, my focus locked on the corpse. There’s no blood. No signs of a fight. Just this kid—a Fiddleback—dead on the floor. And I know him.

The more disturbing thing, though, is how Lyre’s acting. She got weird the second we reached the door. Tense in a different way than before, and no longer interested in what’s inside.

The door had swung open on its own too, which is freaky as hell when I can see the hinges and latch are in perfect condition. Someone must not have closed it properly, but my hinky magic meter—newly acquired and still working out the kinks—is pinging.

Just as I’m about to call out a warning, Thom comes up behind me and immediately recoils. His weak stomach strikes again.

"Oh, gods—" His face goes pale green and he bolts, the unmistakable sound of retching following his hasty exit.

Andrew steps in beside me, his nose wrinkling as he scents hard. "Why doesn’t it smell worse?"

I’m wondering the same thing. A dead body should reek, especially to our senses. But all I get is the strange lemon scent layered over the barest whisper of death. All the horrible rot and strange darkness? It’s gone, like it never existed. Like I’d imagined it all.

Owen gives the body a wide berth, moving straight to the metal cabinets along the far wall. He starts opening them methodically, patting the walls, searching for something. He’s supposed to be part angel or something, right? And yet he doesn’t even glance at the body. He’s busy looking for... I’m not sure.

Evidence, maybe. Or threats. Traps?

Lyre finally slips past me, her rainbow hair catching the dim light as she crouches next to the body with that eerie calm I’m starting to expect from her. Like death is just Tuesday.

Kind of thought she was heading back to the car, but I guess she changed her mind again. Strange woman. Still wildly appealing, though.

"It’s Marsh," I tell her calmly. "A Fiddleback. He brought Caine to their territory from the hospital."

The kid’s young. Shame he was born into such a shitty pack. Just a dumb kid. I doubt he really understood what his pack was up to.

Or maybe he did. Maybe his innocence and youth hid something darker inside. I wonder if Elizabeth was the same way. She’s probably dead, too, thanks to Caine and Fenris.

Marsh’s face looks peaceful despite how his body looks. No visible wounds, aside from the strange positioning of his limbs.

But Andrew’s right. The scent is all wrong. He’s already rotting, his abdomen bloated, with skin breaking down and—

Wait a second.

was alive two

of decomp, it should smell

way too alive two days ago to be

my observation. "The smell will come back. It’s only clean because of

"What sanitization?"

Marsh’s chest, not quite touching. I wonder if

explains absently, pulling her fingers

about her little verbal bomb. "Reapers? What

think it over for another millisecond, "You don’t mean...

her head slowly, giving me a blank, withering look, like I’m the biggest idiot in the room. "What other kind would

there’s more to this supernatural shit than we learn in our packs, and I’m not a fan of feeling outclassed. I’ll have

by Marsh, silent and brooding. The silence stretches uncomfortably. Owen returns to stand by her, and the mere ten inches between them has me

never felt possessive over

now?" I grunt. "You brooding your way to

here, but I bet they’re cat slits again. They always seem to do it when she’s thinking hard, or doing something magical. "They sacrificed a viable

can’t you track ’em

heels, no longer hunched forward in observation. Something flickers across her face—an

she

doorway, reluctantly edging inside. He sidesteps

here,"

can’t look at it—" he starts, his face

to. You can track,

He does it every few minutes, but even more when

not true," Lyre says mildly. "But we’ll worry

tensing, watching her every move. She drops her voice, but my

you, it

widen. "Wait—what

looking straight at her, for once. "Are

tight at his side, and

up," she says, not even bothering to look at

kiss. Not just any kiss—deep, deliberate, intense. The kind

shock of magic erupts from the point where their lips meet, crackling through the air like static electricity. It’s not just visible, but both acrid and sweet to my

spiral before zooming off into different directions, phasing through the walls of this place

flare involuntarily. The arousal scent is unmistakable—his, not hers. Something ancient, from simpler times, roars to life in my chest,

have no claim on Lyre.

And yet...

her tongue move like that