Page 97 of Grace of a Wolf 2
He grins.
It's the most relaxed look I've ever seen on his face, and I want to hug him with relief.
"Always hungry, that one," Sara says with the weary authority of someone three times her actual age. "Owen says it's the shifting that does it. Burns a lot of energy."
"It does," Caine confirms, settling her on his hip as he heads back to the kitchen area. "Especially when you're young and growing. You were probably the same as a pup."
"I'm not a pup," she says, stuffing toast in her mouth.
"You are now."
"Huh." She chews thoughtfully.
Ron watches Bun, smiling when she drops a chunk of banana on the floor. She stares over Caine's shoulder with watery eyes, as if her older brother can somehow magic it back into her hands.
"She seems adaptable," I murmur, glad to see a more uplifted look on his face.
"Babies usually are."
Chapter forty-five
Jack-Eye: Intrigued
JACK-EYE
My left leg cramps for the fifth time in an hour. Fuck compact SUVs and their contempt for anyone over six feet tall. I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't feel like my knees are pressed against my throat, but there's no relief to be found in this rolling sardine can.
Dawn's coming, with weak pink and gold fingers creeping across the lightening sky.
And we're still on the highway.
No known destination, being driven by someone more likely to turn us into amphibians than answer questions.
We've been driving all night, and the mood in the car has settled from the aftermath of rage and deep sorrow into something fragile. Like if we breathe wrong, we might remember everything all over again.
In the back seat, the Blue Mountain kid's snoring with his head pressed against the window. The sniveling wizard is asleep against his shoulder, twitching occasionally. Once he flinched so hard, his glasses flew off his face. It still didn't wake him up, even when Owen shoved them back on.
The strange guy—an angel, or something related to one… apparently—has been awake this entire time, like he's used to forgoing sleep for missions.
And then there's Lyre.
One arm drapes across the steering wheel with casual confidence, the other resting against her door. Like she could drive this road with her eyes closed.
She hasn't spoken in hours, but her lips have gone from a tight line to somewhat pursed, and her eyes no longer crinkle at the corners, more relaxed as she stares ahead. There's still the hint of simmering rage burning the air around her, but at least I'm reasonably sure she won't set the car on fire.
I catch it again—a faint shimmer across her knuckles. A subtle glow pulsing beneath her skin when she thinks no one's looking.
She's powerful. Shifters aren't exposed to her kind of magic, but even I can recognize it's greater than anything I've seen before. And it's barely contained by a slip of a girl with rainbow-colored hair and strange eyes which flash between human and cat-like.
Without warning, she takes an exit ramp, the SUV gliding smoothly off the highway onto a stretch of rural back road.
"We getting close?" I ask, rolling my shoulders to work out the stiffness.
"No." Her voice is flat. End of conversation.
Damn it.
Aside from one pit stop for gas and Thom's desperate rush to the bathroom—both to rinse out his vomit-stale mouth and to use the more traditional facilities—we haven't gotten a break from this damn tin can on wheels. She's a woman on a mission.
