Page 59 of Grace of a Wolf 2
"Fine. But no wolfing out, no threatening anyone, and if I tell you to back off, you back the hell off. Understood?"
He mimes zipping his lips, which might be more convincing if his canines weren't slightly more prominent now.
The bell above the pizza shop door jingles, and both our heads swivel toward the sound. A young man exits, balancing three large pizza boxes in his arms. His hoodie's pulled low over his face, but there's something in his movements—careful, deliberate, constantly scanning. It sets off alarm bells.
Well, that, and the energy radiating off him.
"That's him," I whisper, reaching for the door.
Jack-Eye's hand locks around my wrist, surprisingly gentle for someone who could probably crush my bones without trying.
"Wait. Let's see where he goes. If he leads us back to where they're keeping Grace—"
"Since when are you the reasonable one?" I mutter, but sink back into my seat.
I sniff discreetly at the air, but there's no hint of Grace's scent. Maybe I'm wrong.
The man slides the pizzas into the back of a battered Honda Civic, then climbs into the driver's seat. As the engine starts, I turn the key in my own ignition and pull out of the parking space, leaving just enough distance between us and the Civic ahead.
The energy signature pulses steadily now, like a beacon drawing me forward. If it leads us to Grace, we might actually have a chance of getting her back before Caine tears this entire city apart looking for her.
Chapter twenty-seven
Grace: Wild Child
I reach for the fluttering brown sparrow darting through the room, but my fingers close on empty air as Bun zips toward the ceiling.
"Damn. You were so close," Ron says.
"Yeah, damn," Jer echoes.
Sara sighs. "You're not supposed to use bad words."
Meanwhile, I'm waving my hands frantically as I shout, "Bun, please come down!"
The tiny bird chirps manically, wings beating frantically in hunger-induced chaos. She's been shifting nonstop for twenty minutes—from bunny to kitten to fish (a terrifying thirty seconds of flopping), and now this. My heart hammers against my ribs even as I wonder how a toddler who can hardly walk a straight line has already figured out flying.
"She's losing it," Ron says beside me, craning his neck upward. "The pizza's taking too long."
Jer nods grimly. "Sugar crash. Plus she's still growing."
He sounds so wise, but I don't think her growth has anything to do with her current state of mania.
I watch helplessly as the little brown bird dives toward a particularly threatening-looking piece of wall. "Can't you guys do something?"
Sara crosses her arms, shaking her head. "She's too fast. Last time she went bird, Owen had to use a net."
"And Sara can't figure out how to fly, so she's useless," Jer adds.
"Shut up, Jer!"
The sparrow swoops over our heads, chirping what sounds suspiciously like swear words. Except she's a toddler, and I'm pretty sure she only knows about fifteen actual words.
Ron sighs, sounding so resigned, you'd think he was asked to work overtime. "I'll get her."
His transformation happens in a blink—one second he's a gangly preteen boy with messy hair and eyes too old for his face, the next he's a young gorilla, his fur glossy black.
My jaw drops.
