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?"

decay. An unnatural odor that doesn’t belong, like rain mixed

My stomach turns.

mutter. "But

rises, his silver eyes gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. "Blood magic. But why does it smell like

what they were doing." The words taste bitter. Amateur work. Powerful, but sloppy. Like watching a child with a

are. Four symbols, equidistant from each other, perfectly

North. South. East. West.

the eastern mark, narrowing my eyes. The lines are a little too squiggly. Some are too short. A few are too

"He’s pulling from banks."

as he kneels opposite me, examining the western

press my palm against the floor, feeling the emptiness where power should resonate. When I destroyed Isabeau, the magic in this space should have dissipated

"She had an

his tall frame tense with barely contained fury. "Who? Who did this? What are you

Someone with enough power to gather this much blood energy

Someone desperate.

"I don’t know yet."

Who knows how his magic would have responded

sucked away, tied to the blood sigils pulling arcana from

teeth and throw out my hand, channeling my rage through my fingertips. The

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

stumbling back like I’ve just tried to incinerate

would be amusing if the situation weren’t so

from me, though his face remains mostly impassive.

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

what about—" The Lycan

I cut him off, watching as the flames die down, leaving nothing but black scorches. "And I don’t want even a sliver of Isabeau’s

again, a constant buzz against my hip that’s becoming harder to ignore. Divinity Connect is having a field day with my emotional