Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 75: Lyre: Something Wicked This Way Comes (II)

LYRE

"You have no authority here, Echo Witch." Her eyes narrow, as she steps back. Her feet are bare, and blood squishes between her toes as she steps in a small puddle of it. "This territory is claimed, these creatures are bound, and you have no standing to interfere."

I release the suspended blood with a flick of my wrist, letting it splash to the ground in a wet slap. "Claimed? By whom, exactly? Last time I checked, America wasn’t your playground."

"America." She snorts, circling me with wary steps. "You speak as if you have some claim to it. Where have you been, Lyrielle? Over a century of silence, and now you appear with demands?"

"You don’t get answers, Isabeau." I scuff one of her blood sigils with the toe of my boot. The symbol sputters and shudders as its magic fractures. "Why here? Europe’s full of dark little corners better suited for your brand of rot."

Her laugh is like gravel dragged across concrete. It’s always been unpleasant—an ugly sound to match her uglier soul.

"Perhaps I wanted a taste of American hospitality. The wolves here are so... accommodating."

I grimace. I’m sure she ran here with her tail between her legs, looking for fresh meat. Fed until she could walk upright again.

Rebuilding her strength must’ve taken effort. Not that it’ll help her now.

"Mmm." Her tongue drags over too-sharp teeth. "Such enterprising creatures. Always chasing more—time, power, life. Is it really so monstrous to give them what they want?"

I suspected as much the moment I scented her stench on the wind outside town. Still, the confirmation annoys me.

If she’s been feeding off the local wolves for long, the stink’s probably sunk into the dirt by now. This is the problem with her kind. They don’t just corrupt people. They rot places.

is in her territory, too. Damn. And her nasty little claws have dug deep into this pack. Am I going to have to

this generation’s Lycan King. There should be enough strength left in the old magic to help him survive whatever wretched

problem stands in front of me now. She’s both their captor and their

when the source of

Well.

pay with magic you

step over the smeared blood sigil, each footfall deliberately placed to

You’ve gone from merchant to farmer. But even a glutton can’t eat the same thing every day. You

least five paces between us, taking a step for every one

my tongue. "You always did

here, Lyrielle? Who are you working for this time? Fate? War? Pestilence?

orders to get rid

my voice flat, bored even. "Do that, and I’ll let you continue

insufferable smirk tilts her lips. I’ve seen it on a dozen faces she’s worn

going to do about it?" Her French accent thickens, mockery curling at the edge of her vowels. "I’ve been here a long time, Lyrielle. No

now. Her bloody footprints trail behind

your touch," she goads. "And your power." I blink, staring

damage, or have

Her smirk falters.

she tried to weaponize. To her sputtering sigils. Anyone with eyes

entrance screamed ’depleted’ to you?" I ask. "The part where I tore through your defenses like wet paper, or the part where I disarmed your attack with one hand? Is it my face? I do look younger than ever, but I’m