Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 106: Jack-Eye: Irrational, But Still

I push the door open wider, stepping inside the shed first because that’s what you do when you’re second-in-command. Take point. Assessment. Protection. All that shit.

Definitely not because I want Lyre noticing how I can take care of her, even if she’s the strongest person in this motley little crew of ours.

The rush of lemon hits my nostrils again, but underneath it—

"Fuck."

A body sprawls across the concrete floor, limbs at all the wrong angles like someone dropped him from a height. The position is too awkward, too unnatural. Like he tried to curl up before the end.

"What is it?" Andrew calls from behind me.

I don’t answer right away, my focus locked on the corpse. There’s no blood. No signs of a fight. Just this kid—a Fiddleback—dead on the floor. And I know him.

The more disturbing thing, though, is how Lyre’s acting. She got weird the second we reached the door. Tense in a different way than before, and no longer interested in what’s inside.

The door had swung open on its own too, which is freaky as hell when I can see the hinges and latch are in perfect condition. Someone must not have closed it properly, but my hinky magic meter—newly acquired and still working out the kinks—is pinging.

Just as I’m about to call out a warning, Thom comes up behind me and immediately recoils. His weak stomach strikes again.

"Oh, gods—" His face goes pale green and he bolts, the unmistakable sound of retching following his hasty exit.

Andrew steps in beside me, his nose wrinkling as he scents hard. "Why doesn’t it smell worse?"

I’m wondering the same thing. A dead body should reek, especially to our senses. But all I get is the strange lemon scent layered over the barest whisper of death. All the horrible rot and strange darkness? It’s gone, like it never existed. Like I’d imagined it all.

Owen gives the body a wide berth, moving straight to the metal cabinets along the far wall. He starts opening them methodically, patting the walls, searching for something. He’s supposed to be part angel or something, right? And yet he doesn’t even glance at the body. He’s busy looking for... I’m not sure.

Evidence, maybe. Or threats. Traps?

Lyre finally slips past me, her rainbow hair catching the dim light as she crouches next to the body with that eerie calm I’m starting to expect from her. Like death is just Tuesday.

Kind of thought she was heading back to the car, but I guess she changed her mind again. Strange woman. Still wildly appealing, though.

"It’s Marsh," I tell her calmly. "A Fiddleback. He brought Caine to their territory from the hospital."

The kid’s young. Shame he was born into such a shitty pack. Just a dumb kid. I doubt he really understood what his pack was up to.

Or maybe he did. Maybe his innocence and youth hid something darker inside. I wonder if Elizabeth was the same way. She’s probably dead, too, thanks to Caine and Fenris.

Marsh’s face looks peaceful despite how his body looks. No visible wounds, aside from the strange positioning of his limbs.

But Andrew’s right. The scent is all wrong. He’s already rotting, his abdomen bloated, with skin breaking down and—

Wait a second.

He was alive two days ago.

"For this level of decomp, it should smell worse," Andrew says, still fixated on the scent.

"He was way too alive two days ago to be this far along," I point out.

Lyre doesn’t look up from her examination, unimpressed by my observation. "The smell will come back. It’s only clean because of the sanitization."

"What sanitization?"

Her fingers hover over Marsh’s chest, not quite touching. I wonder if she’s doing something magic.

"The Reapers have already been here," she explains absently, pulling her fingers away. There’s some hair on his chest. Short, gray hair. Maybe fur.

But my brain’s far more concerned about her little verbal bomb. "Reapers? What reapers?"

Then, after I think it over for another millisecond, "You don’t mean... Grim Reapers?"

She turns her head slowly, giving me a blank, withering look, like I’m the biggest idiot in the room. "What other kind would make sense here?"

"Right." Clearly there’s more to this supernatural shit than we learn in our packs, and I’m not a fan of feeling outclassed. I’ll have to talk to Caine about upgrading our education.

Lyre remains crouched by Marsh, silent and brooding. The silence stretches uncomfortably. Owen returns to stand by her, and the mere ten inches between them has me rattled with a strange level of possessive irritation.

I’ve never felt possessive over a woman in my life.

"What now?" I grunt. "You brooding your way to an answer?"

She doesn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on the body. I can’t see from here, but I bet they’re cat slits again. They always seem to do it when she’s thinking hard, or doing something magical. "They sacrificed a viable young wolf. Not one of the breeding stock. That means they’re close. Real close."

"Then can’t you track ’em from here?"

"Not close in distance, fool." She leans back on her heels, no longer hunched forward in observation. Something flickers across her face—an idea forming, probably. Her scent’s a little sharper with purpose.

"Hey. Wizard," she calls suddenly.

Thom reappears in the doorway, reluctantly edging inside. He sidesteps awkwardly, as if determined not to look at the corpse.

"Get in here," Lyre commands.

"I can’t look at it—" he starts, his face still ashen.

"You don’t need to. You can track, right?"

He shifts his weight nervously, glancing at me as he shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He does it every few minutes, but even more when he’s nervous. Which is almost always. "It’s the only thing I’m good at."

"That’s not true," Lyre says mildly. "But we’ll worry about that later."

She steps closer to him, and I find myself tensing, watching her every move. She drops her voice, but my hearing catches it clearly.

"If it’s you, it shouldn’t trip Plausibility."

Thom’s eyes widen. "Wait—what does that mean?"

Owen steps forward, his face tight. He’s looking straight at her, for once. "Are you sure about this?"

He sounds calm, but his fists are tight at his side, and his entire body’s tense.

"Shut up," she says, not even bothering to look at him.

Before I can ask what the hell is happening, Lyre grabs Thom by the collar of his shirt and pulls him into a kiss. Not just any kiss—deep, deliberate, intense. The kind that ruins men, with her gorgeous pink tongue flicking out and shoving its way into his mouth.

A shock of magic erupts from the point where their lips meet, crackling through the air like static electricity. It’s not just visible, but both acrid and sweet to my nose.

White butterflies—actual fucking butterflies—materialize out of nowhere, swirling around them in a luminous spiral before zooming off into different directions, phasing through the walls of this place like they don’t even exist.

My nostrils flare involuntarily. The arousal scent is unmistakable—his, not hers. Something ancient, from simpler times, roars to life in my chest, clawing its way up my throat.

I have no claim on Lyre. I barely know her.

And yet...

Fuck, does her tongue move like that when she—

I cut the thought short before I go down a path I’m not ready for. I’m equal parts enraged and turned on, and I hate both reactions. Punching Thom in the face for experiencing what I’ve been stupidly fantasizing about? It sounds like an amazing idea right now, even though it isn’t.

And I also kind of want to watch her do it again.

This is so fucked up.

When she breaks away, the lucky motherfucker drops to his knees, boneless and dazed. He’s blinking up at her like he’s seen the face of the Moon Goddess, lips parted, breathing ragged.

Lyre, on the other hand, isn’t looking at him. Her face is raised, eyes squinted as she... does something. Who knows what the fuck she’s doing. She walks a few feet away, lifting her hand to the air, and Owen watches her like she’s about to catch on fire or something.

The bewitching woman turns slowly, her hair glowing faintly in the filtered light coming through the shed’s dirty windows. She looks more like an angel than the reticent Owen.

Probably won’t look so angelic with my dick in her mouth, though. Which... is definitely going to have to happen. I’m not sure how. Or when. But it’s the only way to get this shitty memory out of my head.

And then I’ll know if her tongue really does move like that...

Damn. I told myself I wasn’t going down that road, and here I am, parked right on it like I don’t ever want to leave.

With a dead, rotting corpse beside me.

There are probably better times for this.

Thom’s still kneeling, staring up at Lyre like she’s a devotional painting come to life, even as his dick’s rock-hard in his pants. I lean down close to his ear, desperate to break the spell for both our sakes.

"Put your cock away, Romeo," I murmur.

"I—no, it isn’t..."

He jerks out of his daze and covers his crotch with both hands, eyes wide and words frantic. "It’s just a reaction... the magic... anyone would have felt it. I didn’t..."

"Easy, kid."

The raging jealousy in me fades. Doesn’t go away—I still want to grab him by the throat and squeeze until his nerdy little head pops off—but seeing how scared he is does a little to ease my fury.

At least he won’t get in my way. Not on purpose, anyway.

"We have another lead," Lyre announces. "It wasn’t strong enough, but at least we have a direction."

My eyes narrow. "Does this mean you have to kiss him again?"

Thom’s cheeks flush into a deep crimson, even as he stares at Lyre with a mix of devotion and lust. "I—I don’t mind."

Of course he fucking doesn’t.

"Not yet," she says, oblivious to how I feel. To how he feels. She’s looking at Owen, instead, and I’m suddenly furious at the man for having such bulging biceps. Women like biceps, don’t they? And he’s handsome. Ridiculously handsome. Makes sense, if he comes from angels.

Though—since when do angels fuck around?