Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 79: Lyre: Hunting for Grace

Chapter 21: Lyre: Hunting for Grace

LYRE

There’s no point in being angry with the brainless boyfriend; trusting in his authority as the Lycan King is to be expected. All wolves fall under his purview, and even rogues would think thrice before double-crossing the throne.

But I still want to kick his stupid face to the curb.

I slam through the hospital doors with enough force to make the two security guards behind the reception desk jump to their feet.

My wards should have screamed the moment anyone approached Grace’s room with harmful intent. They were simple but effective—the magical equivalent of trip wires rigged to flash bombs. Not exactly subtle, but subtlety wasn’t the point.

"Miss, you can’t—" a woman in scrubs starts.

I cut her off with a look. "Grace Harper. Where is she? Don’t give me any bullshit about her being discharged, either."

The security officers are already acting like I’m another problem in their minimum-wage day. Hands shift toward batons, shoulders square, and there’s the whole I’m-not-looking-at-you side-eye where they’re completely tuned in to every breath I breathe.

Well; there’s no point in arguing with someone manning the information desk. A quick glance at her lanyard says she’s not even a nurse. Why the hell is she even wearing scrubs? She’s a receptionist.

Spinning on my heel, I head toward the elevators. Of course, Burly and Muscles immediately step out from their little desk cocoon with a whole lot of ego and cheap cologne wafting my way. One’s hand hovers near his taser, the other plants himself directly in my path.

"Ma’am, I need you to return to the desk," says the broader one, Burly.

I don’t slow my stride, and Muscles gets ahead of me, holding out an arm to block my path. "Ma’am, you’ll need to come with us—"

With a flick of my finger, all three of them—the receptionist and both security guards—go flying backward, pinned to the nearest wall like butterflies to a corkboard. The receptionist’s mouth opens for a shrill scream—so I gag them all with air.

No one wants to listen to high-pitched shrieking. It’s murder, but for ears.

Their bodies struggle uselessly against my binding, arms splayed wide, feet dangling inches above the floor.

In about ten minutes, they’ll be free again. Maybe mildly traumatized, but I’m sure they’ll get over it one day.

Someone screams at the meager display of power and people scatter across the lobby like fleeing rats. A woman yanks her child close, shielding his eyes.

I don’t have time for any of their bullshit. If I don’t find Grace soon, the Lycan King’s going to rampage all over this city. And if he does that...

No. Better not to think about it. The moment any of this reaches their ears, my precious peace is going to become a distant memory for the next few centuries. Do you have any idea how hard it is to escape the yoke of Divinity?

Almost impossible, okay? It involves almost five hundred years of bribes, dirty little secrets, and a whole ass pirate fleet.

People stay far away from me as I approach the elevators. The ignorant few who reach the lobby give me a curious look as they exit, while everyone watching probably has a mild heart attack.

just indiscriminately attacking people or

little creatures, but I get

Like a certain Grace.

door" button repeatedly, not caring if I look like

with a mechanical groan. I cross my arms and tap my foot against the floor, watching the numbers crawl

pocket. I pull it out, glancing at the

Connect: 3

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

knowing I’ll regret it. The sleek black interface of the app

work when

rampage

I thought we had an agreement. You kill something interesting, you send

eons. @Lyrielle,

These idiots.

through their complaints, a

HOLD

[WRATH: @Lyrielle’s reading us!]

blood? Did you make that little witch cry before

eventually. You owe me

You probably

index finger, closing the app before they can draw me into their nonsense. Whose brilliant

and I shove my phone into

immediately buzzes again.

I’d throw the damn thing into the nearest incinerator. Unfortunately, the app can’t be

if

station

she?" I

pulled back in a tight gray bun, glances at

"Grace Harper. Room 3629."

quantum physics in interpretive dance. Or maybe she thinks I’m here to tag

tapping away with frustrating slowness. I know she’s old, but can’t she at

her record couldn’t

was just glitched for

was discharged," the old one says, after her snail-pace

was no help, but the little gossips were. Such darlings. Rumors have always made the world go round... not always for the better, but hey, sometimes they’re

phone. Probably the stupid Divinities, but I check

Thankfully, I’m wrong.

Thom can’t

Who the fuck

[CAINE: My wizard.]