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.

make shouting any more painful than it would be for a human... but I’m

off again. I

technology," I mutter, squeezing the handle with enough force to warp the metal. Something is wrong

feels tight, like the moments before a shift when my bones prepare to crack and reshape themselves. But this

Release it slowly. It

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 patience and

still need water. Gasoline isn’t the only

and then I can get back to

Not a sound to normally

But the sink is laughably small, barely enough

fill a bottle and pour

to be an easier

cheeks and the distinct scent

male. Adolescent. Terrified enough to release

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

shuffles his feet.

Obviously.

lean forward and lower my voice, keeping it soft and steady. Don’t want to spook the kid further. He might wet himself. "Then where would you suggest I

Trucker’s Roost about a mile down the highway. They got a water station for RVs and stuff." His voice has gone up an octave, and his eyes keep darting everywhere but at me. The pungent scent of his fear should bother me, but instead it soothes the

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

good to be

any trouble," he says, hands raised. His coworker, a girl with blue hair, reaches

trouble." Grabbing the jugs,

sign for it on our way up.

here, he’d have plenty to say

problem these days," I hear him mutter to his coworker as I

air smells worse than before, almost electric and burning. The clouds have swallowed

sits atop the ice machine, its blue eyes fixed on the darkening horizon. Its posture speaks of disdain, as if it’s taking the weather as a personal offense. As I pass,

afraid. Not even slightly

reaction