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.

shouting any more painful than it would be for a human... but I’m on edge as it is, and

again. I

warp the metal. Something is wrong with

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

breath. Release it slowly. It

finally fills, and I cap 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

need water. Gasoline isn’t the

I can get back to Grace.

buzz. Not a sound to normally

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

many times I’d need to fill a bottle and pour it in to

be an easier

attendant with acne-scarred cheeks and the distinct scent of marijuana clinging to

Terrified enough to release

your sink’s too small in the bathroom." I place the

and he 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

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

builds in my chest. The kid takes a jerky step

to be

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

jugs,

up. There was, if I recall, a chicken on

he’d have plenty to say about

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

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

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, it turns that steady gaze on me, assessing. Then, without hurry, it hops down and disappears

afraid. Not

strange reaction