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.

hearing doesn’t make shouting any more painful than it would be for a human... but I’m on edge as it is, and hearing gravelly

off again.

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

before a shift when my bones prepare to crack and reshape themselves. But this isn’t a shift. This is something else—a pressure

a deep breath. Release it slowly. It

slightest sound—a car

Gasoline isn’t the only

this done, and then I can get back

lights buzz. Not a sound to normally capture

of Lyre’s blue jugs in hand, I head for the bathroom. But the sink is laughably small, barely enough to wash hands, and certainly not capable of filling

calculating how many times I’d need to fill a bottle and pour

to be an

the distinct scent of marijuana clinging to his clothes watches

enough to release a familiar, pungent

these with water, but your sink’s too small in the bathroom." I place the empty jugs on the counter. "Where can I fill

he shuffles his feet. "Um. The bathroom

Obviously.

Don’t want to spook the kid further. He might wet himself. "Then where

got a water station for RVs and stuff." His voice has gone up an octave, and his eyes keep

my chest. The kid takes a jerky step back,

good to be

raised. His coworker, a

no trouble." Grabbing the jugs, I head out

think I saw a sign for it on our way up. There

here, he’d have plenty to say

him mutter to his coworker as I push through the

than before, almost electric and burning. The clouds have swallowed the sky now, turning

darkening horizon. Its posture speaks of disdain, as if it’s taking the weather as a personal offense. As I pass, it turns that steady gaze on me, assessing. Then, without hurry,

afraid. Not even slightly

strange reaction for