Page 80 of Grace of a Wolf 1
The itch fades.
"Find what you need," I tell Thom. "But don't touch anything more than necessary."
The warlock nods and steps inside, his eyes sweeping the space with professional interest. I remain in the doorway, arms folded, watching as he moves cautiously through the room that held her.
You still don't see it,Fenris says.
Reacting to his little comments only makes it worse, so I stay silent.
Seriously? Even now, you're not going to admit it?
I grind my teeth and keep my eyes on Thom as he approaches the bed. He doesn't reach for the sheets as I feared, but instead crouches down to peer at something beneath.
"This might work," he murmurs, reaching under the bed frame.
His hand emerges clutching a small, dark object. A hair elastic. Simple and ordinary, yet my fingers itch to grab it from him.
"Her essence is strong on this," Thom says, examining the tiny band. "She used it recently, probably to tie her hair back. There are some strands in here still."
"Can you track her with it?"
He holds the elastic up to the light, squinting at it through those ridiculous spectacles. "I can try. It'll be stronger if I have something with a more significant genetic trace, though. Hair with follicles attached would be ideal."
"The bathroom," I say, nodding toward the en-suite. "Check her brush."
As Thom disappears into the bathroom, my eyes drift around the room. The bed is a mess, blankets kicked to the foot of the bed. There's a pillow, but it doesn't smell like her, only laundry detergent. The sheets, though…
Jack-Eye. Bring the sheets and blanket from her room and put them on my bed. No—leave them here.
I don't need to bring them; I'll just sleep here, where her scent is strong.
"Got some," Thom calls out from the bathroom. "Give me just a second. If she's within five hundred miles, I should be able to pinpoint her within a five-mile radius. The closer we are, the more accurate it will be."
I straighten, a prickling sensation crawling up my spine. Something's happening.
It's only a few steps to the doorway.
The warlock hunches over the sink, his spindly fingers clutching Grace's hairbrush. His eyes are closed, lips moving in rapid succession as he mumbles in a strange language. It sounds like ten strangled cats attempting to meow after their vocal cords were cut.
The air shifts, a faint breeze materializing from nowhere. The bathroom mirror fogs, then clears, then fogs again.
Thom's voice rises, his words taking on a peculiar cadence, and twenty white butterflies burst into existence around his head. Translucent wings glow with an unnatural light as they flutter in an organized pattern, circling his face like a living crown. Each one looks identical—not natural butterflies at all, but constructs of pure magic.
My tattoos itch, the sensation crawling across my skin like ants. I resist the urge to claw at them. Magic always has this effect on me; it's one of the reasons I avoid warlocks when possible.
His eyes snap open, his irises glowing the same white as the butterflies. He barks a final word in his screechy voice and splays his hands outward. The butterflies shoot away as if propelled by an invisible force, zooming in twenty different directions; they pass straight through the walls, leaving no trace of their passing.
The warlock slumps forward, catching himself on the edge of the sink. His breath comes in ragged gasps, sweat beading on his pale forehead and dripping down his temples. The entire display has left him looking like he's run a marathon.
I scratch absently at the back of my neck, where the itching is most intense. "How long before we get results?"
He straightens with effort, adjusting those ridiculous glasses. "Just a few minutes, High Alpha." His voice sounds raspy, drained. "My seekers will find her if she's within my range."
I look him over, noting how his hand trembles against the counter. His face has flushed an alarming shade of red, and the vein in his temple pulses visibly beneath his skin. All this from a simple tracking spell.
This is exactly why I've always found wolf prejudice against magic-users pointless. Look at him—a dozen flying paper weights and he needs to catch his breath. They're just as weak as humans, only with magical parlor tricks.
"You need water?" I ask, more out of practicality than concern. I need him functional.
