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.

the air around their mouths. "And

turn to wide-eyed panic. Shifters always forget some of us breathe magic rather

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. Seven centuries, and I still

invented air fresheners, you know," I mutter to no one in particular as I stride

ranging from infants to teenagers. Some whimper as I pass. Others stare with

they never

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

come

His eyes flash amber

whisper,

unmistakable—like recognizing someone’s voice in a crowded room. It leads

again, she was never

Another kick, another crash, another doorway reduced to scrap. The room beyond is larger, circular, with sigils etched into the floor and

a pristine white dress, as if she’s headed

going for the creepy Victorian

rage, her eyes

bad at learning

Witch," she snarls, and I

"In the flesh."

her hands, and the blood pooling around her feet rises in dozens

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