Grace of a Wolf by Lenaleia

Chapter 96: Lyre: Weight of Life (II)

LYRE

My magic curls out like tendrils, brushing against the walls of the chamber, tasting the carnage.

I’m too late.

The walls tremble. Dust sifts from the ceiling. My phone vibrates, one after another. Nonstop, and I already know what’s happening.

Divinity Connect is lighting like a Christmas tree, sensing the shift in my control.

Blood. So much blood. Most of it dried to rusty brown, flaking from the walls in macabre patterns. But near the furthest wall—fresh crimson glistens in the dim light. Still wet. Still new.

I walk deeper into the chamber, my steps deliberate. My magic extends further, parsing through the residual energy, and I go very still.

This wasn’t Isabeau.

Not entirely.

Jack-Eye steps up beside me, his face drained of color. "What the fuck happened here?" His voice shakes. He’s furious, and barely controlling his panic. The scent of it is strong, and yet still almost buried beneath the gruesome stench of this place.

I don’t answer. I can’t. My attention is focused on the room itself, on the energy patterns hanging in the air like invisible cobwebs. The bodies aren’t quite randomly placed. At least, not the ones outside of the cages.

Owen crouches beside one of the bodies, his movements clinical. He acts unaffected, but I can feel his core of arcana shaking. He checks for rigor mortis, examines the wounds on the neck and chest, like he does this every day. And maybe he does. "They didn’t fight back."

"They never had a chance." My voice is flat, but the rage continues building. At Isabeau, at whatever did this—but mostly at myself. I should have come back sooner. Should have evacuated them immediately. Should have not been distracted by Grace and her stupid mate and their nest of soulspliced kids.

I know better than to leave loose ends.

Then Jack-Eye stiffens beside me. "Do you smell that?"

sharp, chemical tang cutting through the stench of decay. An unnatural odor that doesn’t belong, like rain mixed with

My stomach turns.

I mutter.

gleaming unnaturally in the dim

bitter. Amateur work. Powerful, but sloppy. Like watching a child

the floor. And there they are. Four symbols, equidistant from each other, perfectly etched into the concrete. The glyphs are pristine, untouched by

North. South. East. West.

too short. A few are too long. There’s a hook where there shouldn’t be and a few too many loops, but the glyphs are clear

"He’s pulling from banks."

face hardens as he kneels opposite me, examining the western symbol. "A

the emptiness where power should resonate. When I destroyed Isabeau, the magic in this space should have dissipated gradually, returning

a sound heavy with foreknowledge. "She had an unusual hold over this

barely contained fury. "Who? Who did this? What

Isabeau, drawing on her power, perhaps even with the help of her her consciousness. Someone with enough power to gather this much blood

Someone desperate.

"I don’t know yet."

wizard to stay behind. Who knows how

have even been sucked away, tied to the blood sigils pulling arcana from this

channeling my rage through my fingertips. The

make a sound, doesn’t crackle or hiss. It just burns, clean

back like I’ve just tried to incinerate him. His silver

terror on his face would be amusing if the

me, though his

barely contained fury. "Take Andrew and that twitchy wizard and get

The Lycan Beta

as the flames die down, leaving nothing but black scorches. "And I don’t want even a sliver of

constant buzz against my hip that’s becoming harder to ignore. Divinity Connect is having a field day with my emotional state. Probably logging every spike in my power