Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 116: Caine: Storm Rolls In

CAINE

The pump clicks off again—the third time in only a few seconds. I throw my head back and rub at my nape, feeling my teeth grind together.

Patience.

I am capable of patience.

Even when dealing with a piece of shit, malfunctioning fuel pump.

Fuel trickles into the second red jug at an agonizing pace, for the fourth try. The first jug filled fine. The second keeps stopping, as if the pump decided to malfunction midway through.

Not my fault.

It just... happened.

Rolling my shoulders back, I squint at the sky. Not at the numbers inching upward. No point in feeding my annoyance, or this restless energy racing under my skin.

A gust of wind whips across the station. The scent it carries is sharp and artificial, and my nose wrinkles as I sniff it in a little deeper. It’s strange; I can’t quite place it, but it just doesn’t smell like a normal weather pattern. And beneath it all, something kind of itchy and strange.

Ten minutes ago, the sky was clear blue. It’s being taken over by heavy, dense storm clouds.

"Martha, you seein’ this?" an old man calls to his wife from the next pump over. He’s filling up a rust-bitten pickup that’s seen at least three decades of hard use. His pump seems to be functioning just fine.

Maybe I should wait in line at one of the other pumps. There are only three others, though. It’s a small station, with prices bloated to match.

"Were we supposed to get a storm in tonight?" he continues, stepping a few paces to the right and squinting through his wrinkles.

The woman pokes her head out of the passenger window, shouting, "They never get it right anymore. Storms never came in like this when I was a girl."

He’s not far enough to warrant the increase in her volume. Either he’s hard-of-hearing, or she is. Or both. They’re certainly in the right age bracket for it. Their voices grate on my nerves.

than it would be for a human... but I’m on

pump clicks off again.

the handle with enough force to warp the metal. Something is wrong with today. With the

the moments before a shift when my bones prepare to crack and reshape themselves. But this isn’t a

take a deep breath. Release it slowly. It

it with more force than necessary. Every nerve in my body feels raw, exposed. The slightest sound—a car door slamming, the old man’s crackling radio—is like a grater taken to what’s left of my dwindling supply of

Gasoline isn’t the only reason

can get back

normally capture

sink is laughably small, barely enough to wash hands, and certainly not capable of filling these

stare at it, calculating how many times I’d need to fill a bottle and pour it in to make this

be

the counter, an attendant with acne-scarred cheeks and the distinct scent of marijuana clinging to his clothes watches

to release a familiar, pungent

small in the bathroom." I place the empty jugs

shuffles his feet. "Um. The

Obviously.

forward and lower my voice, keeping it soft and steady. Don’t want to spook the kid further. He might

RVs and stuff." His voice has gone up an octave, and his eyes keep

growl builds in my chest. The kid takes a jerky step back, and my metaphorical hackles

to

coworker, a girl with blue hair, reaches for

the jugs, I

it on our way up. There was, if I recall, a chicken on the billboard.

he’d have plenty to

real problem these days," I hear him mutter to

against the asphalt. The air smells worse than before, almost electric

the weather as a personal offense. As I pass, it turns that steady

Not even slightly

strange reaction for