Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 42

Chapter 42: Grace: Lyre’s Strange Behavior

When Lyre slides into the chair across from me, I lose track of the strange cat. It disappears as if it was never there at all.

"White?" Lyre asks between bites, completely unconcerned as I tell her about a bizarre cat only I can see.

"Yeah."

"Don’t worry, it’s harmless."

Andrew’s out there now; I watch through the window as he sniffs the air, turning to shrug his shoulders at me through the glass. He must not smell anything.

Having a stalker is annoying, but hey, if he wants to brave the strange and mysterious for me, I’m not going to complain. If I have to suffer through his constant unwanted presence, I may as well get something out of it.

I nibble at a French fry, enjoying its salty potato goodness as I watch her eat. "What do you mean by ’harmless’?"

Lyre shrugs, her slitted eyes narrowing slightly as she takes another monstrous bite of her burger. Ketchup dots the corner of her mouth. "Exactly what the word means."

She’s already halfway through her meal, and she’s only been sitting here for a minute. My stomach growls in response, my appetite suddenly returning now that Lyre’s here.

The burger’s greasy and generic, but for some reason its flavor rivals the food the pack offers. Freedom is the best seasoning.

"Our plans are going to be messed up, though," she muses between chews, staring out the window. Andrew paces a few more times, nostrils flaring, before he heads back to the entrance, presumably to come back here.

"What do you mean?" Mustard gloops out the side of my burger, and I wipe at it with a napkin. It isn’t that I dislike mustard, but too much of it is just... well, too much.

"It means what I said." Her tone borders on patronizing, as if I’m asking a stupid question.

I blink, waiting for elaboration that doesn’t come.

"Well, that’s why it’s always best to expect the unexpected." Lyre’s voice comes out languid, lazy almost. She stretches in her chair, leaning back as she finishes the last quarter of her food. "We won’t go far tonight. I’d rather have a comfortable place to stay."

My forehead creases. A thousand questions bubble to my lips, but I swallow them down with another bite of burger. Who am I to argue or complain? Lyre’s a free spirit, willingly bringing me along at her own expense. If she’s being a little weird, well, she was weird from the moment we met, so it isn’t really that strange when I think about it.

The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, exactly. Just... weird. At least on my end. Lyre seems perfectly content to exist in her own bubble of certainty while I flounder in confusion beside her.

She finishes her burger long before I’m even halfway through mine. While I continue to eat, she plucks fries from the container between us, scrolling through her phone with greasy fingers.

"Looking for a nearby campground," she explains without looking up. Her brightly colored nails click against the screen as she huffs. "Damn it. If I’d known we were going to camp properly tonight, I wouldn’t have bothered dumping the tanks here."

"I’m sorry." Apologizing is second nature, a reflexive response. Somehow, I feel responsible for this inconvenience, even though camping tonight is news to me, too.

Lyre’s head snaps up. "Why are you apologizing?"

The last French fry dangles in midair as I blink at her. "I don’t know. It just... felt necessary."

She shakes her head and clicks her tongue. "Stop apologizing when there’s nothing to apologize for. It makes you look weak."

My cheeks burn; it isn’t like I’d ever considered myself strong, but being looked down on is never a great feeling.

Lyre squints at me, her unusual eyes calculating. Then comes another sigh, deeper than the last, as if the weight of the entire world rests squarely on her shoulders. She shakes her head again. "You need to remember how to appear strong, even when you feel weak."

"I am weak," I say automatically, used to the designation.

"You don’t have to be strong. Just look strong."

My eye twitches. "You want me to lift weights?"

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