Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

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.

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

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

meat, puddles of blood congealing along the packed dirt floor, unwashed bodies, and the product

in particular

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 since stopped

never learned

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,

strong will always come

I pass, tiny fingers grasping at my sleeve. His eyes flash amber in the dim light. The sight twists something ancient and painful

little one," I whisper, gently

unmistakable—like recognizing someone’s voice in a crowded room. It leads me to a heavy metal door

hour continues. Then again, she was never great at

don’t bother with subtlety. Another kick, another crash, another doorway reduced to scrap. The room beyond is larger, circular, with sigils etched into the floor

in a pristine white dress, as if she’s

sigh. "Still going for the creepy Victorian doll aesthetic, I

face contorts with rage,

bad at learning her

snarls, and I

"In the flesh."

shriek, she lifts her hands, and the blood pooling around her