Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 122

Chapter 122: Grace: Monster in Her Skin

The sky goes dark so fast I think I’m imagining it. One second, the kids are shrieking over hide-and-seek. The next—it’s like the sun gets yanked right out of the sky. Clouds roll in thick and gray, swallowing up the blue like it never existed.

Sara’s nose is pressed to the RV window, her breath fogging the glass. “What’s happening?”

She hasn’t moved since the thunder started.

Caine would probably be upset the blinds are open, but Fenris would know if someone’s out there watching us. It should be okay.

Jer bounces between couch cushions. “Maybe aliens. Maybe the apocalypse. Maybe the dinosaurs are reincarnating—”

“Maybe it’s just a storm, Jer,” Ron cuts in. He definitely has less patience for the younger boy than he does Sara or Bun, probably because Jer never stops talking.

Every time I touch something, I get shocked. Static electricity is strong in the air, but none of the kids mention it. Maybe it’s just me.

Something about this storm feels… off, though. Wrong. Not like normal rain.

The older girl turns toward me, eyes wide as she asks, “Is it gonna lightning? I want to see lightning.”

“Probably.” I check the solar display, already worried. With the sun in hiding, it means the panels aren’t getting anything in, right?

The display flickers. Numbers drop. Then they spike. The overhead lights flicker and the air conditioner stops abruptly.

A second later, the lights are back, and so is our air.

“Oh, no. Is our power going to go out?” Jer asks, craning his neck to stare at the light above him like it’s going to give him answers.

“It shouldn’t… We have batteries, too.” But everything flicked out for a second when it shouldn’t, which doesn’t really make me confident in my answer. The microwave clock reads 12:00, blinking obnoxiously to let me know it reset.

Rain hits the camper—not in drops, but in sheets, a solid wall of water slamming against the fiberglass encasing the camper.

The entire trailer shudders, before settling into a new rhythm of noise.

Sara squeals with delight, once again glued to the window. “I love rain! I love it so much. I hope it lightnings more!”

“Maybe we shouldn’t stand near the windows during a—” My warning dies as lightning forks across the sky, illuminating Sara’s face.

“Look!” she shrieks, bouncing on her toes on the couch even as her nose stays pressed against the glass. “It was a big one!”

Thunder reverberates, as if to agree.

Within seconds, we’re all crowded around the windows—even Ron, though he pretends it’s just to keep the little ones in check. Jer holds Bun reluctantly, her tiny fists gripping his shirt as she stares wide-eyed at the deluge.

“You know,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice, “this is perfect weather for a movie. I’ve got snacks all set out—”

“Rabbit food,” Jer mumbles.

Yeah, healthy food doesn’t have the same appeal as chips and popcorn.

And there’s the whole solar issue. If I run the TV and a movie, with the sun not out…

Lightning and thunder come with alarming frequency. Sara flinches at one particularly loud boom. It shakes the entire camper.

“Ho-lee!” Jer yells. “That was a big one!”

Bun cries.

“That wasn’t even that loud,” the older girl announces, rearranging her face into nonchalance, like she wasn’t as scared as the younger kids.

Another bolt of lightning, closer this time. The camper lights dim completely before surging bright again.

The pressure in my ears builds with each crash of thunder. Something about this storm feels… personal. Targeted. I shake my head at the ridiculous thought.

Bun stiffens in Jer’s arms, her crying suddenly silent.

Her little nose twitches once, twice. She sniffs the air hard, like she’s caught something none of us can smell.

“Bun?” I step forward just as her body contorts.

The growl she makes isn’t the playful rumble we hear sometimes when she’s being stubborn. It’s deep, guttural… adult.

Her eyes dilate until almost no iris remains, and something in my mind screams: danger.

I reach for her, but I’m too slow.

She launches herself at Jer’s face—tiny hands now sporting curved, vicious claws. Not the kind you’d see on a housecat. These are built for rending flesh, for hunting. They catch Jer across the cheek as he falls backward with a shocked yelp, blood spattering across the floor.

Shit.

Sara’s scream pierces through the thunder. Jer drops Bun as he falls, hand pressed to his bleeding face.

Ron moves faster than any of us.

Instead, he’s bolting down the hall and yanking the door open. “Come on, Sara! Outside!”

“No, Jer, don’t—!”

The door flies open, yanked out of his hand by the strong wind. He falls to his knees.

A massive black shape barrels through the sudden opening, clearing Jer’s head in a graceful leap.

Fenris fills the space, ethereal blue light pulsing beneath his midnight fur. Dominance rolls off him like a wall, I stagger back, my knees weakening for a moment, before it passes over me.

The kids aren’t as lucky.

Ron shifts back instantly, his human form collapsing against the entertainment center, blood running from several wounds. Sara and Jer flatten to the floor.

Bun’s the only one still moving. Shrieking in defiance, still feral, and still wrong. She tries to dart away, then turns to fight—but Fenris pins her with nothing but a stare and a snarl.

She shifts partially back—her limbs human again, but her face contorted, teeth still too sharp, eyes still wild. A continuous growl rumbles from her tiny chest.

My heart lodges in my throat.

Blood’s everywhere. Ron’s chest heaves with exertion, but his eyes are glued on Bun, his hands clenched tight. Worry’s written all over his face.

Jer’s still bleeding from his cheek, too. Sara’s the only one unharmed, and she’s huddled against the floor in terror.

And Bun—my sweet, chaotic Bun—curls in a defensive position beneath Fenris’s massive form, snarling like a cornered animal.

The storm isn’t just battering the camper from outside. Somehow, it’s gotten into her.

“Bun?” I step forward hesitantly.

Fenris snaps at the air between us—a clear warning to stay back.

I ignore it, dropping to my knees beside them. “Bun, honey, it’s me.”

She lunges, teeth snapping at my extended fingers. I jerk my hand back with a gasp, then steel myself and try again—this time placing my palm gently on her leg, far from her teeth.

Her snarling quiets a fraction. Her eyes still flash with something foreign and feral, but there’s a flicker of recognition fighting through. Or maybe it’s my wishful thinking.

“Bun? Can you hear me now?”