151 Grace: On a Scale of One to Ten…
My body feels like someone’s buried me in wet cement, on top of every cell in my body pulsing with a low, electric hum.
It isn’t painful. It’s just… there.
Present.
Like background noise.
I flutter my eyes open, squinting against the dark ceiling. It’s definitely morning- there’s light peeking around the room–darkening blinds–but no idea what time.
Hell, it could be afternoon.
The air conditioner’s on, too. I wonder if someone was smart enough to close the window. They must have, because I can hear the generator running, but it’s muffled.
Stretching is a whole process, involving groaning and trying to untangle myself from the sheets, evidence of restless sleep and…
Oh, sweet Goddess.
All the memories flood back. Caine’s hands, his mouth, the golden threads connecting us, the freaking bite, his face when he came all over my hands–and my cheeks flame instantly. I shift, feeling the ache between my thighs, the tender spot on my neck where his teeth met my skin, and a strange internal vibration which hasn’t quite gone
away.
A little girl’s squeal rings out from outside, followed by Caine’s deep voice.
“Bun, don’t put that in your mouth. That’s dirt. We don’t eat dirt.”
I scramble to the edge of the bed and pull the black fabric shades back just a little, enough to peek through the side.
Caine’s standing with his back to my window, holding Bun upside down by her ankles while she giggles uncontrollably. Sara and Jer are chasing each other with sticks. Ron’s using Fenris as some sort of furry pillow as he snoozes in the sunlight.
They look… normal. Happy. Like a family.
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151 Grace: On a Scale of Ond to Tenz
Huh. And the strange, foreboding feeling is completely gone.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as my feet hit the floor. My body doesn’t just ache–it buzzes, like my entire body’s been wrapped around a battery.
If I had to guess (not like it’s a hard one to figure out), this has something to do with our… shenanigans.
There’s no time to contemplate it. I need coffee, a shower, and to look event
semi–human. Caine had changed all the sheets last night during my shower–another reason he’s amazing and doesn’t deserve the frustration I’d thrown his way yesterday- and I’m feeling a little…
Well.
Useless?
Seriously. A girl’s gotta earn her keep these days.
Running my fingers through my tangled hair, I shuffle toward the bedroom door. Mistake number one is looking in the mirror.
Jesus.
I look like I’ve been electrocuted.
Sleeping with wet hair doesn’t always end well.
A brisk brushing of hair and teeth later, I step into the main living area of the camper, only to jerk to a stop.
Lyre sits at the dinette, one leg folded under her, scrolling through her phone with a deep furrow between her eyebrows. Her slitted eyes flick across the screen rapidly. She doesn’t look up.
“Hi, Grace.”
“Uh… morning, Lyre. When did you come in?”
“Last night. We slept together, but I don’t think you noticed.”
Definitely did not notice. Probably could have had an atom bomb go off at my feet and I wouldn’t notice.
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151 Grace: On a Scale of One to Ten….
Well–obviously a bad metaphor, since I would have died immediately.
But you get the point.
Feeling a little guilty with all the memories of things I definitely should not have been doing (in her bed, no less!), I trudge my way to the coffee maker. One step at a time. Just need to get the coffee going, and then–D
A sharp curse cuts through the silence as Lyre slams her phone face–down on the table.
I turn, startled by the noise, and find her staring directly at me. Her cat–like eyes are laser–focused, seeing through me rather than at me.
I flinch.
And then, terrifyingly, her eyes focus on me again. The wrath behind them disappears.
Instead, she smiles. It’s sweet and knowing and I am so, so screwed.
On a scale of fuck–ups from one to ten, I’m pretty sure playing with your boyfriend’s dick on your best friend’s bed is a ten. Maybe a twelve.
“I heard you two fucked last night,” she says pleasantly, as if commenting on the
weather.
Heat explodes across my face as I stutter, “Wha–no! We didn’t–I mean–not all the way-”
My hands fly up, hovering uselessly in front of me as if they could push her words away. How does she even know? Was she watching? Did Caine tell her? How much did he tell her?!
She cuts through my panic with a drawl, “I made it very clear. No touching.”
It feels a little like getting caught by your mom.
My shoulders slump. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far…”
I wrap my arms around myself, remembering what a great idea it seemed in the moment–touching him, feeling the energy, thinking I could control it. The memory of power surging between us makes my skin tingle,
even now.
The rainbow–haired witch snaps her fingers sharply and points at me. “Exactly. Luat’s
151
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“You can feel it now, can’t you? 1reak her head rithet “The arcans. When he touches you.
I nod slowly, awkwardly turning away to make my coffice: Felearly need some caffeine for this conversation. “Yeah I can see it now. Like… threads? Goldden threads connecting us. I can see them, but not with my eyes, if that makes sense
Glancing over my shoulder lets me observe her expression shift. She leans back, chin resting on her hand, a strange thoughtfulness replacing her anger. She studies me with her unnerving cat–slit eyes, and I have the distinct impression she’s seeing more than Just me.
Like whatever vision I could use to see the threads of energy yesterday.
Only the air conditioner and the muffled generator tell me time’s still flowing. Then a burst of laughter from outside. Sara. Maybe Jer.
Then Lyre says, softly but clearly:
“You met Chaos, didn’t you?“
I blink at her. Then blink again. “How’d you know?”
152 Lyre: Anchors and Divinities
LYRE
Grace looks like a spooked deer, and I reign in my arcana hard. The poor things a mess. Thankfully, she slept through my little spat with her royal leech last night.
I sigh.
“The storm’s one of his signatures. He likes a dramatic entrance, but it’s not all hist fault. Chaos can’t really exist without…” My hands flutter in the air. “Chaos.”
“Uh–huh.” Grace just looks more confused than ever as she finishes making her cup of coffee. She slides into the bench opposite with me and takes a slow sip, her eyes finally meeting mine without sliding all over the place.
Guess it’s finally time to turn the poor girl’s world upside down.
She sucks in a deep breath. “So, did I sign my own death warrant by meeting him?”
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
I tap my finger against the table, watching the girl across from me. Grace is trying so hard to appear casual, but her entire body’s strung tight and her leg keeps jiggling under the table.
“Have you seen any strange apps on your phone recently?” I ask, keeping my voice deliberately light.
Her eyes widen immediately. “Yes! I got this weird notification from Chaos through it. I can’t open it whenever I want, though.”
Well, shit.
The confirmation wasn’t really necessary, but it still sucks to hear it.
I sigh deeply, the sound dragging out of me like it weighs a thousand pounds. “Yeah. It’s probably because Chaos pushed up the timeline of your fate.”
“What does that mean?” Grace leans forward, her coffee forgotten. She’s a bloodhound of a human now, latching onto the possibility of answers in her strange new life.
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I shake my head. Some truths aren’t mine to deliver, and frankly, I’m not in the mo be smote before lunch. “That’s not something I’m free to share.
Her face falls.
“More importantly, Grace, do you understand what Chaos is?”
The girl hesitates, fiddling with her cup, spinning it between her palms. “If angels exist, then my assumption would be Chaos is the devil?”
The laugh that bursts from me is genuine. The same tired binary. Good versus evil. Heaven versus hell. As if existence could be packaged so neatly.
“You’re not exactly wrong, but also, you’re very wrong”
Her brow furrows adorably.
“Chaos isn’t a who,” I explain, “but a what. Chaos is closer to the type of existence one might call ‘God‘ or ‘Goddess.”
She frowns, opening her mouth to ask what appears to be one of fifty burning questions judging by the look in her eyes. I hold up my hand, stopping her before she can derail us.
“Three ancient gods–to put it in a way you might understand–exist and rule this world and others. Order, Chaos, and Balance.” I count them off on my fingers, trying to simplify concepts that predate language itself. “All other gods fall under their purview. The Goddess most wolves pray to would be considered a minor divinity, for example. She does not have the power one would think she has compared to a primal divinity,
such as Wrath or Justice.
Grace stares at me blankly, looking like she’s trying to solve differential equations in
her head.
“Are you still following?”
She nods slowly. “Kind of.”
“To put it simply, you had a brief visit with Chaos. One of the three ultimate divinities in this world. As you can imagine, chaos is his purview. Anything to disrupt order in
this world is under his reign. Like you.”
Predictably, she blinks again. “Me?”
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152 Lyre: Anchors and Divinities.
“Yes. You.”
I wait for her to process this new line of information.
“How am I… disrupting order?”
“To be precise, you aren’t disrupting order. Your existence does. Did Chaos say anything to you about Anchors?”
She nods. “Sort of. He called me an Anchor”
I grin. “Yes, he would. That’s because you are one.”
I let the silence simmer a little longer. Part of it is for my amusement, of course- watching the confusion grow in Grace’s eyes. But most of it’s for her to digest this information at her own pace.
But also because I’m weighing and judging what I can and cannot reveal to this child who’s stepped into the realm of gods.
It’s a painful balancing act, but Time has failed us both, letting this happen under his
watch.
The apologies flooding my inbox aren’t nearly enough to douse the irritation Chaos. has roused in me. Daring to touch Grace, to push her when she isn’t ready…
“Okay. I’ll bite. What’s an Anchor, Lyre?”
I reach across the table and poke Grace’s nose, making her blink in surprise. “What do you think an Anchor is, little miss?”
She sits back, frustration creasing her brow. The girl has such an expressive face–all her emotions play across it in high definition. Right now, she’s vacillating between annoyed and desperate, caught between wanting to tell me to go to hell and begging
for
answers.
“Why do I have to guess? Can’t you just tell me?” Her voice edges into a whine, one hand curling around her coffee mug like it’s a lifeline.
It isn’t the type of whine a child might use, but more like… an annoyed younger sister.
It’s cute.
“Because, darling, you’ve been walking a very interesting path. You must have ne
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152 Lyre: Anchors and Divinities
theories by now.” I tap my nail against my own mug, studying her. “You’ve been feeling things, haven’t you? Sensing things? I’ve rarely seen someone face so many
extraordinary circumstances in such a short window of time without developing a working hypothesis.”
The frustration slowly melts from her face. Behind it, something thoughtful emerges- cautious but genuinely curious. She’s chewing on the inside of her cheek as she thinks.
“Well…” she starts, voice quiet. “Caine mentioned that I seem to… calm him.”
I nod, letting the silence stretch just long enough to encourage her to continue.
“And when we touch, I could feel the energy–like gold threads connecting us.” Her words pick up speed. “When Bun shifted and lost control, I was able to reach her somehow. And last night with Cano” She stops, a flush invading her cheeks. “There was something there. Something powerful. It felt like he was pulling something out of me. Or maybe we were sharing it?”
I watch her work through it, pieces clicking into place behind those intelligent green eyes. The girl isn’t stupid–just woefully uninformed and drowning in supernatural
existence.
“So whatever I’m doing, I’m… anchoring Caine, right?”
She’s closer than she realizes. I nod again, more deliberately this time.
“Caine feels less…” She gestures vaguely with her hands, searching for the word. “Less volatile around me. Less dangerous. Is that what an Anchor does? Stabilizes things?” My lips curve into a smile. Not bad for a child who was raised by wolves with absolutely zero magical education. Granted, the signs were there in blazing neon, but
still.
“Indeed.” I lean back, weighing how much to tell her–how much I’m permitted to tell her. The lines between guidance and interference blur so easily. “An Anchor is exceedingly rare.”
Grace’s eyebrows lift. “So I’m special?”
“Didn’t you already know that?”
She laughs a little, but it’s awkward. “You knew I was an Anchor when we first
then?”
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