Grace of a Wolf (by Lenaleia) novel Chapter 217

#17 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?

217 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?

The yellowed paper suddenly feels… gross.

“Not every mission involves heroics, Miss Harper. We try to escalate our missions appropriately.”

I press my lips together.

“What are you doing?”

For one crazed second or thirty, I hold the paper to my phone, half–expecting it to disappear into the world of internet data and update my App.

“Of course. It’s my job.”

Blood?

Sarcasm aside, his logic is logical, even if it only increases my frustration.

He smells like lemon furniture polish with the faintest whiff of stale cigarette smoke, and my eyes fall automatically to his fingers. His left index and middle finger have yellowed calluses near the first knuckles.

Too bad the possibility of lung cancer in his future doesn’t help me in this moment as I ask faintly, “Did you do something to my dog

wd cat?”

How did he get in? I’m pretty sure Andrew would have followed him if it was through the front door. And when, precisely, did he arrive? I didn’t hear the telltale jingle.

So I think it over. Demi–god blood in a shifter laundromat does seem… odd. My mind races through possibilities, none of them comforting, and most of them pulled out of fantasy books and battle–hungry animated shows, which means they all basically end with either the threat or reality of world domination at the hands of some evil master villain.

My spine does its best to shrink back against my skin, equally revulsed by how close he is. “What are you doing?”

“None at all?”

Silver eyes

flick up

from the paper, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising with them. His

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217 Grace: Where’s Sadie (and the Cat)?

expression radiates condescension the way normal people radiate body heat. Seriously, I can practically feel it in the air.

“Fine, but you have to admit it’s a bit anticlimactic to find essentially nothing. A piece of old paper isn’t exactly the stuff of legends, and it wasn’t hidden very well.”

“Mhm.”

“Were you watching the whole time?” I ask, even though I’m pretty sure he was, considering his earlier message.

Honestly, I’m betting on weird.

Caeriel examines the small bit of blood–streaked paper like it’s truly some ancient artifact and not a possibly hazardous biosample, and I wonder if he can get any information just from sniffing at it… or if he’s just weird.

All the help.

“Were you anticipating a subjugation mission for your first foray as a Guardian, Miss Grace Harper?” His voice has an annoying lilt, the kind where even a patient old grandma would want to smack him for his sass. “Perhaps battling a demon horde single–handedly? Stopping a dimensional rift with nothing but your wits and a butter

knife?”

“Observing.” Pale fingers pluck the paper from my hand, and he sniffs at it, his face too handsome for his creepy behavior. “How interesting. Good job.”

I point at the paper with a disdainful flick of my finger. “Then why is this even a mission? You probably could have sniffed it out in half a second, and it took me…” I’m not sure how long, but it was probably an embarrassing number.

Frankly, I watch a lot less than most humans do.

And the cat?

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