Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 75

Chapter 74: Lyre: Something Wicked This Way Comes (I)

LYRE

Life was a lot easier when I roamed free.

This strange urge I have to help Grace has pushed me to do things I haven’t done in centuries. Things I’ve almost forgotten about.

But some habits die hard—like my talent for making dramatic entrances.

The reinforced steel door crumples under my foot like it’s made of aluminum foil. Pathetic. Not even warded properly. The crash echoes through the underground chamber it guarded, and I step through the wreckage with practiced nonchalance.

"What the fuck—"

"Intruder!"

"Kill her!"

Same predictable script, different basement. I don’t bother wiping the boredom from my face as three young wolves lunge at me, all snarls and extended claws.

Amateurs.

I’ve been dealing with their kind when their great-great-grandfathers were still pissing on trees.

A flick of my wrist sends arcana pulsing through the concrete floor. The energy responds to my command instantly, gravity suddenly quintupling beneath their feet. All three slam face-first into the ground with satisfying thuds.

twist my fingers, condensing the air around their mouths. "And

Shifters always forget some

packed dirt floor, unwashed bodies, and the product of their existence in this place. I grimace, wishing I’d thought to

fresheners, you know," I mutter to no one in particular as I stride forward. "Decent plumbing, too. Revolutionary concepts. More dungeons should

crammed together—shifters ranging from infants to teenagers. Some whimper as I pass. Others stare with hollow eyes. There’s no hope when they see me pass. They’ve long since stopped

they never learned

blood of gods, but this particular brand of cruelty never fails to ignite that dangerous pocket of rage I keep carefully contained. Humans call it trafficking. Supernaturals call it breeding programs. I call it the same bullshit with different packaging, century after

come out

grasping at my sleeve. His eyes flash amber in the dim light. The sight twists something ancient and painful inside

one," I whisper, gently untangling his fingers.

in a crowded room. It leads me

was

is larger,

as a child, with wide eyes and porcelain skin. Dressed in a pristine white dress, as if she’s headed to Sunday school instead of conducting blood rituals in a gross,

for the creepy Victorian doll aesthetic, I

face contorts with rage,

bad at learning her

she snarls, and I

"In the flesh."

around her feet rises in dozens of crimson missiles, hurtling toward

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