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.

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

Shifters always forget some of

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

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

both walls. Inside each, ten to fifteen bodies crammed together—shifters ranging from infants to teenagers. Some whimper as I pass. Others stare

never learned

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

always come

fingers grasping at my sleeve. His eyes flash amber in the dim light. The sight

today, little one," I whisper, gently untangling

labyrinth, following the pulse of familiar magic tingling against my skin. 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 with

was never great at learning her

scrap. The room beyond is larger, circular, with

pristine white dress, as if she’s headed to Sunday school instead of conducting blood rituals in a gross,

"Still going for the creepy Victorian doll aesthetic, I

with rage, her

bad at learning

she snarls, and

"In the flesh."

hands, and the blood pooling around her feet rises in

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