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

forget some of us breathe magic rather than simply use

ahead stretches into darkness, lit only by intermittent bulbs, flickering like dying fireflies. The stench here 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

no one in particular as

opens into a wider chamber, and my stomach tightens. Cages. Rows of them, 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.

never learned

pocket of rage I keep carefully contained. Humans call it trafficking. Supernaturals call it breeding programs. I call it the same bullshit with

will always come out

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

whisper, gently untangling his

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 symbols I haven’t seen used in proper

she was never great at learning her

scrap. The room beyond is larger, circular, with sigils etched into the floor and blood pooling in the

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

for the

face contorts with rage, her eyes crimson

bad at learning

Witch," she snarls, and I

"In the flesh."

lifts her hands, and the blood pooling around her feet rises in dozens of crimson missiles,

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