Grace of a Wolf-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.

Her expression is locked down tight, but there’s a calculation happening behind those strange eyes, a cold fury building. She looks like someone planning a massacre.

I’ve seen that look on Caine’s face plenty of times. I know exactly what I’m seeing.

My wolf whimpers in the back of my head. Fucking coward. He’s been a mess ever since Lyre turned the angel-man into a toad.

And yeah, maybe it made my knees turn to rubber for a bit, too. But I’m over it. He isn’t.

She finally opens the door and slides out with liquid grace.

"Don’t get comfortable," she says flatly, not looking at any of us. "We’re not staying."

Not like any of us would want to stick around this stench.

I give her a sidelong look and a grunt of acknowledgment. But when she starts moving toward the shed, I step in front of her, putting my body between hers and whatever fucked-up thing waits inside.

It’s stupid. She could probably turn me into a smear on the ground with less effort than it takes me to shift. But some instincts run deeper than self-preservation.

When I glance behind her, she’s got one perfect brow arched like she knows exactly what I’m doing, and she doesn’t find it cute.

It’s fine.

It isn’t like I’m trying to get brownie points. Yet.

This is just basic manners.

And maybe a way for her to notice my ass. I’ve heard it’s pretty fantastic.

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...

One part won’t stop looking back at her.

The rising sun sets fire to her rainbow hair, turning each strand into a different jewel tone. Her skin glows in the warm light, those freckles standing out across the bridge of her nose. She should look exhausted after an all-night drive through hell and back, but instead she looks...

Fierce. Powerful. Fuckable.

Way, way too fuckable.

"Lot of birds," Thom comments, following us and still oblivious.

Andrew smacks him on the back; I can hear the movement, but I can’t see his face. He’s probably mildly exasperated by the human’s inability to sense what we all do.

At least his vapid commentary helps break me out of my lustful thoughts.

She doesn’t thank me for taking point, but I swear there’s a flicker of something like approval in her eyes when she thinks I’m not watching. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking. It sends a dart of heat straight to my groin, which is the absolute wrong reaction to have while walking toward what smells like certain death.

As we near the shed, the stench grows powerful enough to make my eyes water, and my libido finally takes notice and backs down. I track the change in Lyre’s posture—the way her shoulders tighten, her steps becoming more deliberate, her breathing shallow.

I glance back at her for what feels like the thousandth time. Maybe taking point was a terrible idea. I want to be able to see her at all times. Owen, the blockhead, gets in my damn way, coming to stand beside me with his fists clenched as he stares at the door.

Of course, he probably has no idea I’m over here ogling the strange witch-woman, but logic does nothing to temper my irritation. Of course, I’m not the kind of guy to show it. Shove it down. Jack-Eye is easygoing and calm at all times, damn it.

"Is it her?" he asks Lyre. At least, I assume he’s asking her, since none of us know what he’s talking about.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her right hand lifts slowly, palm out, and a soft glow builds beneath her skin, like she’s captured stars beneath her skin. Only brighter, because you can even see them with the sun out.

"No," she says, voice weary with a knowledge none of us share. "In some ways it’s worse."

The door swings open.