Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 117

Chapter 117: Caine: Interference

CAINE

The greasy paper bag of fast food slides across the seat as I turn onto the highway, releasing a cloud of salt, grease, and artificial flavors that fills the cab. I’ve already wolfed down my own burger—pun not intended.

Fast food isn’t really just for the children. It’s the secret vice of the Lycan King. Fenris can inhale his weight in burgers, if he really wanted to.

Bring me some, he insists, intruding on my thoughts. He must have dialed in when I was eating mine.

I already ordered you two. And that’s all you get.

Good enough.

My hand brushes the seat where Grace sat earlier, sending up a puff of blueberry and the faint hint of cave. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to notice the difference. Like a muscle unknotting after days of strain.

I need more of her scent.

Mental note: have Grace sleep in my clothes. Then I’ll wear them after. Pathetic, maybe, but my bond won’t be denied its due.

The small white bag from the bakery counter sits separate from the rest—a single blueberry muffin. The irony isn’t lost on me. Grace smells like the damn things, and now I’m bringing her one like some kind of offering. As if I’m trying to feed her what she already is.

But I can’t help it. Every time I see one, I think of her.

Outside, the sky isn’t right, leaning further into the scale of strange. The green-gray has deepened to something that reminds me of a fresh bruise—purpling at the edges, sickly yellow where light struggles through. The clouds aren’t just moving; they’re churning, boiling against each other like living things fighting for territory.

The shadows on the road stretch wrong. Too long for this time of day. Too dark. And they move—not with the clouds passing over the sun, but with a life of their own.

Driving is a white-knuckle affair, or would be if I was human.

I’m not, and my nerves remain steady as I pass several erratic drivers in the two minutes it takes to reach the freeway.

My radio clicks on.

I didn’t touch it. The volume dial shows zero, but static hisses from the speakers. White noise rises and falls with no pattern. I jab the power button, but nothing changes.

Wind hits the truck broadside, and the whole vehicle shudders, my back end skidding slightly to the right. Rain patters harder, fat drops exploding on the windshield.

“What the hell,” I mutter, easing pressure off the as pedal. My wipers are already on high, but they’re streaking now instead of clearing my windshield.

The rain’s too… heavy. Thick.

My headlights flicker on with a click, then off. Then on again. I didn’t touch those either.

The fuel gauge jumps from full to empty and back. The temperature gauge spins in a complete circle, and the clock scrambles like it’s trying to solve a code.

By now, I’ve slowed down to a pathetic twenty miles per hour.

The engine hiccups, a hard jolt that sends the truck lurching forward, then again. A metallic whine cuts through the static from the radio—high-pitched, like steel being bent just past its tolerance. I grip the wheel tighter.

Now my composure is starting to fail.

Up ahead, cars have already pulled to the shoulder. Hazard lights blink in erratic patterns, out of sync with each other. None of the steady, even rhythm they should have. It’s pouring now, sheets of water hammering the truck. Wind rocks us, and I have to fight to keep us centered in the lane.

My ears pop with sudden pressure, and the truck stutters hard—a violent, shuddering convulsion.

Click. Click.

What’s happening there?

His growl rumbles through my mind. The she-dog keeps pacing near the camper. I’ve chased her off four times.

Not that. Grace and the kids—are they okay?

They’re inside. Safe. A pause. For now.

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