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.

popular belief, a wolf’s sensitive 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 old voices chat about the weather isn’t

clicks off again. I bite back a

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

like the moments before a shift when my bones prepare to crack and reshape

a deep breath. Release it slowly.

raw, exposed. The slightest sound—a car door slamming, the old man’s crackling radio—is like a

isn’t the only

I can get back to Grace. And

Not a sound to normally capture my attention, it’s somehow

head for the bathroom. But the sink is laughably small, barely enough to wash hands, and certainly

I’d need to fill a bottle and pour it in to make this

has to be an easier

the distinct scent of marijuana clinging

Terrified enough to release

to fill these with water, but your sink’s too small in the

and he shuffles his feet. "Um. The bathroom

Obviously.

and lower my voice, keeping it soft and steady. Don’t want to spook

octave, and his eyes keep darting everywhere but at me. The

my chest. The kid takes a

to be

trouble," he says, hands raised. His coworker, a girl with blue hair, reaches for the phone. "There’s nothing I

the jugs, I head out

Roost. I think I saw a sign for it on our way up. There was, if I recall, a chicken on

Jack-Eye were here, he’d have plenty to say

him mutter to his coworker as I push through

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

the darkening horizon. Its posture speaks of disdain, as if it’s taking the weather as

afraid. Not even slightly

strange reaction for