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.

condensing the air

turn to wide-eyed panic. Shifters always forget some of

is about what I expected—a nauseating cocktail of rotting meat, puddles of blood congealing along the packed dirt floor, unwashed bodies, and the product of their existence in this place. I grimace, wishing I’d thought to bring a mask.

fresheners, you know," I mutter to no one in particular

stacked two high along both walls. Inside each, ten to fifteen bodies 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

never

rage I keep carefully contained. Humans call it trafficking. Supernaturals call it

come out

as I pass, tiny fingers grasping at my sleeve. His eyes flash amber

little one," I whisper, gently untangling his

Distinct, unmistakable—like recognizing someone’s voice in a crowded room. It leads me to a heavy metal door at the corridor’s end, marked

again, she was never great at learning

crash, another doorway reduced to scrap. The room beyond is larger, circular,

porcelain skin. Dressed in a pristine white dress, as if

"Still going for the creepy Victorian

contorts with rage, her eyes crimson

she’s bad at

Witch," she snarls, and

"In the flesh."

she lifts her hands, and the blood pooling around her feet rises in

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