Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 217

Chapter 217: Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?

The yellowed paper suddenly feels... gross.

Blood?

Demi-God or not, I highly regret not bringing gloves along on this search. Hopefully said blood doesn’t transmit strange diseases.

And where the hell am I supposed to submit this thing? Does the App have a brick and mortar location? Business hours? A lab?

For one crazed second or thirty, I hold the paper to my phone, half-expecting it to disappear into the world of internet data and update my App.

Unsurprisingly, nothing happens.

"What are you doing?"

Cold, lemony breath blasts my ear and I jerk to the side in justifiably dramatic fashion, cringing my shoulder up to the side of my face to protect myself from Caeriel’s breathing.

My spine does its best to shrink back against my skin, equally revulsed by how close he is. "What are you doing?"

"Observing." Pale fingers pluck the paper from my hand, and he sniffs at it, his face too handsome for his creepy behavior. "How interesting. Good job."

How did he get in? I’m pretty sure Andrew would have followed him if it was through the front door. And when, precisely, did he arrive? I didn’t hear the telltale jingle.

Caeriel examines the small bit of blood-streaked paper like it’s truly some ancient artifact and not a possibly hazardous biosample, and I wonder if he can get any information just from sniffing at it... or if he’s just weird.

Honestly, I’m betting on weird.

"Were you watching the whole time?" I ask, even though I’m pretty sure he was, considering his earlier message.

"Mhm."

"So you were here?"

"Of course. It’s my job."

I point at the paper with a disdainful flick of my finger. "Then why is this even a mission? You probably could have sniffed it out in half a second, and it took me..." I’m not sure how long, but it was probably an embarrassing number.

Suddenly, I hope my washer is still on the ’wash’ cycle, and not ’spin-dry’.

Silver eyes flick up from the paper, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising with them. His expression radiates condescension the way normal people radiate body heat. Seriously, I can practically feel it in the air.

"Were you anticipating a subjugation mission for your first foray as a Guardian, Miss Grace Harper?" His voice has an annoying lilt, the kind where even a patient old grandma would want to smack him for his sass. "Perhaps battling a demon horde single-handedly? Stopping a dimensional rift with nothing but your wits and a butter knife?"

Thanks, I know I’m weak, no need to bathe my ears in your sarcasm. "No, but—"

"Not every mission involves heroics, Miss Harper. We try to escalate our missions appropriately."

Way to make me sound unreasonable. I was just trying to point out how inefficient and stupid the mission was, and he’s turned me into some glory hunter.

But...

"Tell me, Miss Harper," he says, and my name has never sounded so damn annoying in my entire life, "Why would a random demi-god’s blood sample be hidden away in an establishment catering to werewolves?"

Frankly, I watch a lot less than most humans do.

"None at all?"

"Nope," I lie, even as I’ve already created an entire backstory of how angels and demons had babies and one of them started a laundromat in a poor backward werewolf town, only to be killed by a particularly evil sibling who didn’t like them donating money to orphanages and increasing the goodness level of the world.

The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but definitely amusement at my expense. Outside, Andrew’s still waiting in the car, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m having a conversation with Death’s fashion-forward cousin.

Either he hasn’t paid a lick of attention to me in a while, or he can’t see Caeriel. I’m not sure which option is better.

Wait.

Where’s Sadie?

And the cat?

My head whips around, but neither animal is anywhere to be found. A faint, foreboding feeling snakes down my back as Caeriel pushes off the wall to step too close to me, asking what I’m looking for.

He smells like lemon furniture polish with the faintest whiff of stale cigarette smoke, and my eyes fall automatically to his fingers. His left index and middle finger have yellowed calluses near the first knuckles.

Huh. He’s a smoker.

Too bad the possibility of lung cancer in his future doesn’t help me in this moment as I ask faintly, "Did you do something to my dog and cat?"