Grace of a Wolf-Chapter 40: Caine: Tracking (I)

CAINE

There’s an itch under my skin I can’t get rid of, and it isn’t helping my temper. I’ve already been to Forest Springs, only to find out Grace isn’t anywhere in their territory. Their Alpha, however, is a reasonable man.

He traded his pet warlock for his life. I didn’t spill a single drop of blood, something I’ll have to remember to tell the girl later; it’ll show her I’m capable of holding back.

The thought of her relief when I tell her helps soothe the itch, until Fenris snaps, You still don’t get it, you idiot.

He’s barely said a word to me since we discovered Grace missing two nights ago.

My new warlock’s hands shake as he takes her pillow from me. My fingers twitch. I want to snatch it back—the soft bundle of polyester fluff still smells like her.

"This will do nicely," he says, his voice thin and reedy. The Forest Springs Alpha wasn’t lying when he said his pet magic user was skittish. What’s his name again?

Thom, Fenris snarls.

Right, Thom.

My lip curls. "I don’t need your commentary, Thom. Just find her."

The warlock adjusts his peculiar glasses—thick, smoked lenses with copper wire wrapping around the frames. They look ridiculous, but I know their purpose. They shield his eyes from what witches call "magical ambience"—the glow that surrounds every living thing that normal people can’t see.

You drove her away, Fenris growls, his presence swelling with accusation. Our mate is gone because of you.

"She’s not our mate," I mutter, too low for the warlock to hear.

Lies.

Fenris paces our shared consciousness, claws dragging against the mental barriers I’ve erected to keep him contained. He’s becoming more unruly by the hour. Since the moment we realized Grace had fled, he’s been half-feral, snapping and snarling. The guard for her bedroom is yet another body she’s going to hold against me.

As well she should, he mutters, like he isn’t the one who ripped his throat out.

The warlock brings the pillow to his face, inhaling deeply. Fenris howls, and I fight to keep my hands at my side and not twisting his head off his scrawny little neck. "Don’t do that."

Thom freezes, his owlish eyes widening further behind his ridiculous glasses. "Uh, sir—High Alpha—I was just checking the density of her essence."

My eye twitches. If he says essence one more time, I might have to punch his mouth. "And?"

"This isn’t enough. Something with a little more of her DNA would be best."

I snarl without meaning to, my lips peeling back to reveal teeth.

Thom flinches hard, throwing his hands up to shield his face. The pillow slips from his fingers and tumbles toward the floor.

My hand shoots out, snatching it from midair before it can touch the ground. Her scent is the only thing keeping me calm. I can’t let it be contaminated by the floor’s stench of polish and feet.

You could smell her directly if you hadn’t scared her off, Fenris says, sounding colder than ice.

I ignore him, brushing my palm across the pillow’s surface, erasing any trace of Thom’s scent. The gesture feels ridiculous even as I do it, but I can’t stop myself. Once satisfied, I place it gently on my bed.

"Follow me," I bark at the warlock.

He scrambles after me like a kicked puppy, keeping a careful distance as we exit my quarters. Grace’s room sits on the opposite side of the lodge—a deliberate choice on my part, though now the distance feels like punishment. To myself.

The corridor stretches long between us, punctuated by wolves going about their duties. Each time we pass a pack member, they spare a curious glance at Thom before curling their lips in disgust. One even growls low in his throat, causing Thom to press himself against the wall until we pass.

Interesting.

"Is this normal?" I ask, nodding toward a she-wolf who’s openly glaring at him.

Thom’s shoulders hunch further. "What, the growling? The looks? Yes, High Alpha. Spellbloods aren’t exactly welcome in these parts."

"Why?"

"Most of the Alphas in this region consider our practices heresy against the Goddess. They teach their packs that we’re unnatural. Makes it hard to make a living." His voice carries a practiced neutrality that doesn’t mask the bitterness beneath.

"Stupid belief," I grunt.

The change in Thom is immediate. His posture straightens, and he scurries closer to my side, eyes wide with something like hope.

"Right? It’s completely short-sighted! The prejudice against spellbloods goes back centuries, but it’s based on misunderstanding. Magic is just another natural force, like your shifting ability. We’re not so different, really, and the potential for collaboration is—"

The itch beneath my skin intensifies with every syllable from his mouth. His voice hits a particularly grating pitch, and a muscle in my jaw twitches.

"Enough."

He snaps his mouth shut, but the damage is done. My patience, already thread-thin from the girl’s absence, threatens to snap entirely.

"The belief is ridiculous because there isn’t a witch or warlock on this planet powerful enough to pose a threat to even the weakest wolf." I fix him with a cold stare. "Not a single one of you could stand against us. That’s why the fear is stupid."

That’s not necessarily true, Fenris comments. It’s his first time reacting to anything not connected with the human. They might be able to hurt the weakest of wolves. Pups, perhaps.

Thom deflates before my eyes, his shoulders hunching back to their original position. "Right. There’s that perspective too."

We continue down the corridor in silence. The lodge feels emptier than usual. Still, the ones who remain give Thom a wide berth, their disdain palpable; though, when they meet my eyes, they cower.

"My only real skill is tracking," Thom offers after a moment, quieter now. "But wolves don’t have much use for that, do they? Not when you can smell a rabbit from a mile away."

I spare him a sideways glance. His thin fingers worry at the hem of his worn jacket.

"The Forest Springs Alpha only kept me around to track other magic-users. I don’t have a single offensive spell."

I have no interest in this man’s life story, but if he falls into some sort of depression and can’t track the girl I might lose my mind. So I grunt, showing I’m listening.

It must be enough, because his shoulders relax a little. Thankfully, he goes silent after that.