Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 164: Lyre: Constructs

LYRE

"Ugh," I mutter, stepping deeper into the camper and waving a hand in front of my face. The stench of angelic essence burns my nostrils like bleach mixed with summer wind—concentrated Owen, basically. "Should’ve brought a gas mask."

The bodies of Archie and Doris lie neatly arranged on the RV’s floor, hands crossed over their chests like they’re auditioning for the world’s most wholesome vampire flick. Not a drop of blood, not a sign of struggle. Just two elderly puppets with their strings cut, wearing placid expressions to make your skin crawl.

I’ve seen this before. Many, many times.

Owen steps around me, careful not to disturb the scene as he crouches beside the bodies. His own scent mingles with the stink emanating from the corpses.

"Are they your relatives?" I ask dryly, moving toward the tiny kitchen.

"Not mine." His voice carries a careful, measured tone. "But yes. Order. Likely angel-descended."

I’m oddly bothered by the pristine state of this camper. Everything is meticulously organized—canned goods arranged by height, dishes stacked with military precision. The counters gleam like they’ve never seen a cooking spill.

I pull open the fridge, finding it fully stocked with condiments, fresh produce, dairy. The freezer contains neatly packed meat and frozen dinners. All the hallmarks of human existence, but not a single plate of leftovers. The mayo squeeze bottle looks like it’s barely been used, and when I check the bucket of margarine, it’s never been touched.

"Interesting," I mutter, shutting the door.

The trash can beneath the sink is nearly empty—but there’s a closed bag next to it. A quick glance inside shows some bones and paper towels with barbecue sauce. Ribs of corn. Things they would have eaten at the barbecue Grace mentioned yesterday, and nothing else.

I check the cabinets: cleaning supplies, dishes, pantry goods.

But there’s no dog food.

Sadie’s kibble?"

answer immediately. When I turn,

dog. They don’t have food

replies, still focused on

what I

panel of tank sensors mounted near the door. Fresh water: full. Gray water, black water: All completely empty. Propane, too. So they have water but never shower, never

don’t use the bathroom, don’t create trash, don’t eat, and don’t feed their magical golden retriever. Did

wiping his hands on his jeans like he’s touched something unclean. "They’re always creations. Only Chaos uses real

I drawl. "Because that’s so much

there, arms crossed over his chest like the brooding apex predator he is, eyes scanning

"It reeks like

does," I reply, not bothering to

the urge to scratch

and their ridiculous rules. Seven hundred years and I’m still playing their game of "don’t tell the mortals too

place where he’s perceptive enough to know something’s off but not quite connected

a penchant for pretending to be elderly campers. Also, the dog’s coming with you, whether you like it

tells me he’s in the same boat—too many warnings accrued to risk another

tightens as he surveys

rub absently at my

they aren’t dead. Just temporarily not

of his lip.

asks questions neither Owen nor I can answer. "Do me a favor and check on the boy. He seemed

still very much wolf.