Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 104

Chapter 104: Jack-Eye: Rot and Rainbows

JACK-EYE

My already cramped leg slams against the door panel as we hit another pothole.

Fuck these fucking soccer mom SUVs.

A shabby excuse for a structure comes into view through the dusty windshield. It’s not much—just a weathered storage shed with a half-assed attempt at a deck slapped against its side. It has a cheap metal roof and probably leaks every time it rains.

There’s nothing but overgrown weeds and sparse pine trees. And probably about five hundred species of spiders, but we won’t talk about how a single big, bad Lycan is terrified of brown recluse bites.

I’ve seen shit, okay? And it’s nasty.

Anyway, this is the kind of place you’d miss if you blinked driving past, but Lyre’s already slowing down.

Andrew leans forward. “Huh. Looks like someone’s trying to build a tiny house.”

Yeah, and failed.

Nobody answers his inane observation. Thom’s not snoring anymore—guess his head was too rattled from the gravel road to allow for more sleeping—and Owen’s so tense he’s radiating nervous energy through the car.

Lyre’s frowning. She isn’t relaxed anymore, either, but she doesn’t have the edge of anticipation I can smell off Owen. No, she seems… irritated. Maybe disappointed. The scents keep coming and going, blending together until it’s hard to tell them apart.

Whatever she was looking for, this isn’t it. Or at least, it isn’t what she expected to find.

She kills the engine but stays frozen in her seat. Her fingers start tapping against the wheel, one-two-three, one-two-three, like she’s keeping time with a funeral march only she can hear.

Fuck waiting. I need to move before my leg permanently fuses to this position. Whoever’s here must have already heard us coming, so it isn’t like I’m going to destroy the surprise of our arrival.

Shouldering the door open, I slide out with a grunt. My back pops in three places as I stretch, the muscles in my thighs screaming in protest.

Staying up all night? Easy. Fighting? No problem. Folding myself into an accordion for a long-ass car ride I wasn’t expecting? Sucks fucking balls, man.

The others practically tumble out after me the moment the back door opens. Andrew’s more graceful about it, with all the edge of youth, but even he’s got relief written all over his face as he reaches for the sky. First one arm, then the other.

Owen, meanwhile, stretches like a man twice his age. Me? I have to hide the creaking joints. Don’t want Lyre thinking I’m too old to keep up with her.

The wizard, though, just looks pathetically grateful to be out of the stench of armpit and stale cigarettes. No one here smokes; it’s just baked into the interior of the car.

But Lyre still doesn’t move. She just sits there, fingers still tapping, eyes focused on the shed like she’s calculating exactly how much force it would take to reduce it to splinters.

I roll my neck and take a deep breath of morning air.

Then I freeze.

It hits my nostrils like a sledgehammer—not the good forest smells of pine and dirt and morning dew, but something rancid. Not normal rot. Not roadkill or garbage or even a carcass left too long.

This is deeper. Older. Wrong.

It’s the same stink that permeated Isabeau’s prison, but less diluted. More concentrated. The kind of stench where you want to scrape your own skin off afterward.

My hackles rise, wolf instincts slamming against human skin. Every muscle coils tight, ready to shift, to fight.

I look around and see I’m not the only one who caught it. Owen stands stock-still, his face unreadable but his shoulders rigid. Andrew’s mouth is a thin, tight line. Only Thom seems oblivious, quietly gazing at the clouds like we’re on a fucking nature walk.

I bend down to peer through the passenger window at Lyre.

Holy shit.

The scent of death gets stronger with each step toward the shed. My brain splits three ways—one part screaming bad magic, one part tracking the positions of everyone in our group, and one part…

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify