Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 182: Jack-Eye: The Infestation in Question

JACK-EYE

I’m no stranger to death.

But life after death is... new.

After finding Owen’s little hideaway not only burned down on the outside but "unlinked," as he calls it, from whatever magical pocket dimension it once occupied, we had to trek into the hills and down a segment of caves and caverns to make any horror movie director cream their pants in delight with all their warning signs and roped off entrances.

After a few tight squeezes and a few panic attacks from the wizard, we make it to Owen’s secret lair, which is covered in blood, strange writings on the wall (written in blood, of course), and teeming with—

Zombies.

Owen and Lyre call them "ghouls," but who the fuck are they kidding? Rotten flesh. Vacant stares. Arms outstretched while they moan and shuffle toward us like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet and we’re the prime rib.

Actually, their shuffling is pretty fucking speedy, and their arms are only outstretched because they’re trying to tear our heads off, but the point is, the visual’s there.

Though I’m not entirely certain we’re still on our planet. Sure, we all talk about zombie apocalypses—and every man has a plan for one, whether they admit it or not—but it doesn’t mean we actually expect to go through one.

Come on. Zombies. Seriously?

"They’re not technically zombies," Owen says for the third time, driving some old-ass dagger he conjured out of nowhere through one’s eye socket with disturbing precision. "Zombies are reanimated human corpses. These are—"

"The same damn thing!" I duck as one lunges at me, swinging my half-shifted claws through its neck. The head tumbles off, but the body keeps coming. "If it walks like a zombie and tries to eat me like a zombie—"

"Ghouls don’t actually consume the flesh," Lyre cuts in, kicking the legs out from under another one like she does this every damn Monday. "They feed on the residual life force."

"Not. Helping."

Thom hasn’t stopped screaming since we saw the first one. His voice grates on every damn nerve I have as he cowers behind us, absolutely useless. I’m about to tell him to shut the hell up when Lyre makes a sharp gesture in his direction.

His mouth keeps moving, but the sound cuts off instantly.

"Thank you," I mutter, cleaving another zombie-ghoul-whatever from shoulder to hip. Thankfully, since they’re dead and basically rotten, it’s easy to tear them apart.

They stink so fucking bad, though.

I’d rather live in a landfill than smell this shit.

Two hours and a phone call from Grace later—only Lyre would use her phone in the middle of a ghoul uprising—I’m panting, covered in black, putrid goo, and surrounded by dismembered body parts that won’t stop twitching. My arms ache. My clothes are ruined. And I still don’t have any fucking answers.

at a severed hand, still crawling toward Lyre. "So anyone want to tell me why Batman’s secret lair is

a decapitated

blade—another dagger conjured out of fucking nowhere, which would be real fucking handy for me but no one fucking offered—on what used to be someone’s shirt. I stare at her, waiting for more,

covered in black slime, her rainbow-colored hair is matted with gore,

I probably look worse.

And smell worse.

shower," I mutter, running a hand through my hair and

Owen says, gesturing

expression surpasses unfriendly into

fine. There are plenty of showers where we’re going," Lyre

magic Lyre used doesn’t obstruct his mouth, but no sound comes

you do to him?" I ask, nodding toward our resident

glances at me, her expression completely untroubled as she

"You can do that?"

"Obviously."

Huh.

be grateful she hasn’t

about this?" I gesture broadly at the carnage

and Owen exchange a look, and my hackles rise. They keep doing that, this silent conversation

and he nods like it

It doesn’t. Obviously.

in

I scowl.

two talking about?

Silence.

apart the undead for hours without knowing why they’re here or who sent them. Throw me a damn bone

for a moment. Her eyes are all slitted and feline again.

in forbidden magic," she explains. "We’re

details, no explanation of what kind of forbidden magic creates a horde of hungry

I fucking do? I’m at this woman’s mercy, and

to have finished emptying his stomach. "Is the signal

He can’t speak to clarify, because, you know, she fucking

she should remember that before asking him

before standing

up all four of us simultaneously. I tense, expecting pain, but it feels more like a warm tickle against my