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?"

the stench of decay. An unnatural odor that doesn’t belong, like rain mixed with

My stomach turns.

mutter.

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

they were doing." The words taste bitter. Amateur work. Powerful, but sloppy.

are. Four symbols, equidistant from each other, perfectly etched into the concrete. The

North. South. East. West.

eyes. The lines are a little too squiggly. Some are too short. A few are too long. There’s a hook

"He’s pulling from banks."

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

should resonate. When I destroyed Isabeau, the magic in this space should have dissipated gradually, returning to the earth. Instead, it’s gone—completely—as

with foreknowledge. "She had an unusual

frame tense with barely contained fury. "Who? Who did this?

of her her consciousness. Someone with enough power to gather this

Someone desperate.

"I don’t know yet."

thing I forced the wizard to stay behind. Who knows how his magic would have

to the blood sigils pulling arcana from

grit my teeth and throw out my hand, channeling my rage through my fingertips. The sigils ignite instantly—blue-white flames burning unnaturally hot, consuming the markings without

make a sound, doesn’t crackle or hiss.

tried to incinerate him. His silver eyes go wide, reflecting the

would be amusing

two hasty steps away from me, though his face remains mostly impassive. His eyes

say, my voice rough with barely contained fury. "Take Andrew and that twitchy wizard and get out of

about—" The Lycan

I cut him off, watching as the flames die down, leaving nothing but black

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 for