Page 91 of Grace of a Wolf 2
The app is the supernatural world's most persistent annoyance—part divine social media, part surveillance.
I ignore it.
The souls continue their ascent, streaming upward in ribbons of light, fireflies escaping a jar. Free. Finally free. The last traces of soullight disappear through the ceiling, leaving only the empty shells behind.
The blue-white flames flicker and dim around me. My work here isn't finished, but the souls, at least, are beyond reach. Beyond corruption.
I don't speak again. Don't look back. The concrete beneath my feet cracks with each step as I walk through the chamber, past empty cages and discarded bodies. An avenging ghost leaving judgment in her wake.
Behind me, new flames begin to rise—orange-red this time, hungry and cleansing. They won't stop until nothing remains.
The scent of smoke curls at my back, wrapping around my limbs like desperate hands, but never touching my skin. It knows better.
My rage has transmuted—no longer choking or desperate, but elemental. Present. A constant companion rather than a flaring outburst.
Each step I take leaves behind a blackened imprint. I'm still burning, power leaking from my edges where control has frayed.
I stop abruptly, frowning.
Four figures stand in a loose huddle several yards away—Thom, Andrew, Jack-Eye, and Owen. Their heads are benttogether in conversation, shoulders rigid with tension. Fear and exhaustion rolls of the wizard especially in a cloying wave.
I'd forgotten they existed.
For a brief, disorienting moment, I'm confused by their presence. Humans. Wolves. Angel-blood. Inconsequential mortals with inconsequential concerns, waiting for me to acknowledge them, when my mind is already set on vengeance.
Jack-Eye notices me first, his head snapping up when he catches my scent. He breaks from the group, striding toward me with determination, as if he isn't afraid.
But he is.
I guess I'm leaking more than I thought I was.
"What happened down there?" He grabs my arm, fingers digging in as he drags me away from the billowing smoke now pouring from the tunnel entrance. "Get over here. Breathing this isn't good for your lungs."
I let him pull me along, amused he believes I'm fragile enough to need protection. His hand on my arm is warm and solid—convinced of its own authority.
We reach the car, parked haphazardly along the dirt access road. Owen stands off to the side, his silver eyes fixed on me with wariness bordering on terror.
He knows. Of course he knows. Angels are sensitive to souls; he probably watched them all ascend.
My phone keeps buzzing.
A retching sound draws my attention. The wizard's doubled over behind a half-uprooted tree, the contents of his stomach splashing onto dead needles and rocky soil.
Jack-Eye sighs. "That's the third time."
Andrew pauses from where he was about to climb into the back seat of the car. His words are flat as he observes the situation. "He's human. They have weak stomachs."
There's no judgment in his tone, no mockery—just quiet resignation. They've seen too much today, these creatures whose lives are measured in decades rather than centuries.
Jack-Eye's fingers release my arm, leaving behind red marks. They fade as soon as I notice them, but he has no idea; he's too focused on the retching spellblood. "You gonna make it back to the car, or do I need to carry you?"
Thom straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His glasses have gone askew. "I'm fine," he mutters, though he sways on his feet. "Just—give me a minute."
The phone at my hip continues to vibrate, more insistent now. I let out an irritated sigh, yanking the damn thing from my pocket. My vague sense of disassociation disappears, my mind grounded by the irritations of reality. The screen's bright enough to illuminate the space around me.
This isn't a regular notification—this is divine spam.
Expected… but still annoying.
