164 Lyre: Constructs
LYRE
“Ugh, I mutter, stepping deeper into the camper and waving a hand in front of my face. The stench of angelic essence burns my nostrils like bleach mixed with summer wind -concentrated Owen, basically. “Should’ve brought a gas mask.”
The bodies of Archie and Doris lie neatly arranged on the RV’s floor, hands crossed over their chests like they’re auditioning for the world’s most wholesome vampire flick. Not a drop of blood, not a sign of struggle. Just two elderly puppets with their strings cut, wearing placid expressions to make your skin crawl.
I’ve seen this before. Many, many times.
Owen steps around me, careful not to disturb the scene as he crouches beside the bodies. His own scent mingles with the stink emanating from the corpses.
“Are they your relatives?” I ask dryly, moving toward the tiny kitchen.
“Not mine.” His voice carries a careful, measured tone. “But yes. Order. Likely angel–descended.”
I’m oddly bothered by the pristine state of this camper. Everything is meticulously organized–canned goods arranged by height, dishes stacked with military precision. The counters gleam like they’ve never seen a cooking spill.
I pull open the fridge, finding it fully stocked with condiments, fresh produce, dairy. The freezer contains neatly packed meat and frozen dinners. All the hallmarks of human existence, but not a single plate of leftovers. The mayo squeeze bottle looks like it’s barely been used, and when I check the bucket of margarine, it’s never been touched.
“Interesting,” I mutter, shutting the door.
The trash can beneath the sink is nearly empty–but there’s a closed bag next to it. A quick glance inside shows some bones and paper towels with barbecue sauce. Ribs of corn. Things they would have eaten at the barbecue Grace mentioned yesterday, and nothing else.
I check the cabinets: cleaning supplies, dishes, pantry goods.
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164 Lyre Constructs
But there’s no dog food.
“Where’s Sadie’s kibble?” I call out.
Owen doesn’t answer immediately. When I turn, he’s examining Doris’s hand with clinical detachment.
“Owen. The dog. They don’t have food for it.”
“They wouldn’t need to,” he replies, still focused on his inspection.
Yeah, that’s what I figured.
I tap the panel of tank sensors mounted near the door. Fresh water: full. Gray water, black water: All completely empty. Propane, too. So they have water but never shower, never use the toilet, never cook with gas…
“So let me get this straight,” I say, crossing my arms. “We’ve got two ‘people‘ who don’t use the bathroom, don’t create trash, don’t eat, and don’t feed their magical golden retriever. Did they take over actual humans, or are they just… creations?”
Owen stands, wiping his hands on his jeans like he’s touched something unclean. “They’re always creations. Only Chaos uses real bodies.”
“Right” I drawl. “Because that’s so much more ethical.”
I return to the living area, my irritation growing when a new presence fills the doorway, Caine stands there, arms crossed over his chest like the brooding apex predator he is, eyes scanning the interior with razor–sharp focus.
His nose wrinkles instantly. “It reeks like Owen in here.”
“Of course it does,” I reply, not bothering to explain further.
I fight the urge to scratch at my palm.
Screw divine bureaucracy and their ridiculous rules. Seven hundred years and I’m still playing their game of “don’t tell the mortals too much or else.”
His eyes narrow at my evasiveness. He’s in that frustrating place where he’s perceptive enough to know something’s off but not quite connected to the divine world enough for me to just tell him outright. The App would absolutely love that conversation.
Hey, Your Royal Grump, funny story–your reality is managed by bureaucratic celestial
184 Lyre Cucts
entities with a penchant for pretending to be elderly campers. Also, the dog’s coming with you, whether you like it or not. And it isn’t a dog, so try not to get smote. D
Yeah, that would go over well. One look at Owen’s carefully blank expression tells me he’s in the same boat–too many warnings accrued to risk another strike.
Caine’s jaw tightens as he surveys the two bodies. “What killed them?”
1 rub absently at my palm. “Overwork?” @
It’s probably true, too. Though they aren’t dead. Just temporarily not home.
He snorts, disbelief evident in the curl of his lip. “A retired couple spending a vacation
out here is overworked?”
“Well, humans are weak, aren’t they?” I deflect, deciding it’s time to get him out of here before he asks questions neither Owen nor I can answer. “Do me a favor and check on the boy. He seemed pretty shaken up.”
Caine’s upper lip lifts in a slight snarl–a reminder that for all his human appearance, he’s still very much wolf. But then he takes a deep breath and asks calmly, “Should we
be worried?”
Wow. He’s growing. His mama would be proud. Probably.
“No. This isn’t dangerous for Grace or the children.” This, at least, is true. Order would never go so far as to dirty their hands by screwing with Fate or Plausibility. It’s kind of
their schtick.
They look at mortals like little chess pieces following a structured storyline. Things are the way they should be, and it should always stay that way. Of course, life doesn’t follow such rigid thinking–hence Chaos.
Balance always has to mediate between the two, which is why its other name is
Neutrality.
But Balance isn’t any better, In its own way, it’s worse.
I sigh.
Caine grunts, and it’s clear he’s no longer interested in the situation at hand. “Jack–Eye and Andrew are on their way back with the car. How long will your investigation take?”
164 Lyre: structs
I glance at Owen, who shakes his head. He doesn’t know, either. I didn’t expect him to, but it was always possible he might know a little more.
I might be older, but he’s the one associated with Order. Not me.
“Not long. We’ll get it figured out.”
“Understood.” Caine frowns again at the bodies on the floor. For a moment, I think he’s curious enough to ask questions. Maybe something like why are they posed like that or why does Owen smell like them, but no–his disinterest is real.
He turns and walks away without another word. Not even a polite goodbye.
Sighing, I prod at the head of the old man with my foot with a frown. “So, why were angel constructs here before Grace even arrived?” 1
