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.

kibble?" I call

doesn’t answer immediately. When I turn,

The dog. They don’t have

replies, still focused on

what I

of tank sensors mounted near the door. Fresh water: full. Gray water, black water: All completely empty. Propane, too.

get this straight," I say, crossing my arms. "We’ve got two ’people’ who don’t use the bathroom, don’t create trash,

he’s touched something unclean. "They’re always creations. Only Chaos uses

that’s so much

living area, my irritation growing when a new presence fills the doorway. Caine stands there, arms crossed over his chest like the brooding apex predator he is, eyes scanning

instantly. "It reeks like

course it does," I reply, not

urge to scratch at my

and I’m still

narrow at my evasiveness. He’s in that frustrating place where he’s perceptive enough to know something’s off but not

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

over well. One look at Owen’s carefully blank expression tells me he’s in the same boat—too many warnings accrued to

tightens as he surveys the two bodies.

rub absently at my palm.

true, too. Though they aren’t

disbelief evident in the curl of his lip. "A retired couple spending a vacation out here

he asks questions neither Owen nor I can answer. "Do me a

reminder that for all his human appearance, he’s still very much wolf. But then he takes a deep breath and asks calmly, "Should we be